#please ignore me changing the first line it was driving me nuts

[eagerbby]

ᴀɴ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ | ᴇᴍ

pairing| Eddie Munson x female reader

synopsis| A quickie turns into crushing feelings and mounting doubt; the realization that sometimes doing the right thing doesn’t feel so great.

an| the synopsis is bullshit, I really don’t have an explanation for this. just a quick little piece I needed to remove from my head. briefly edited so ignore any mistakes.

warnings| 3K, protected sex, drug use, angst, wandering hands, lack of communication

I dumped my boyfriend.

It all started with that one sentence. Eddie could tell you were in a mood as soon as he pulled into the deserted parking lot. You were leaning against the trunk of your car, bare legs crossed at your frill covered ankles, the hem of your skirt trembling in the early autumn breeze. 

You gave him a smile as he hopped out the van, eyes twinkling under the candescent moon beam that burst free from the dying leaves over head. 

"Hey there, handsome." You offered him a wink as he stepped in front of you, ringed fingers clasping tightly to the keys tucked against his palm.

"Hey, yourself." You looked so beautiful; always so beautiful. It should be illegal.

"Got the goods?" 

Of course he did, that's the whole reason he was there and yet he still nodded his head, curls shaking vigorously around his shoulders, before opening the back door of his van and ushering you inside. 

That was an hour ago- and oh how much an hour can change things.

"Oh, fuck, Eddie." You toss your head back as you work your hips, nails digging into the leather of the side behind him. 

Eddie's holding onto your hips for dear life, scared if he lets go for one second he'll wake up and realize this has all just been a dream. 

Wouldn't be the first.

What was meant to be a simple drug deal, one of many that have happened between the two of you within the last couple months, had quickly escalated into a wet fucking dream. Eddie's wet dream; to be exact. 

"G-god, that thing you do with your hips is incredible." 

Eddie's trying his hardest to keep his eyes locked on you. One; because this will probably never happen again. Two; because you fuck like a demon. Or a goddess. Eddie can't differentiate which at the moment, not when you swivel you hips as you take all of his fat cock down to the base, ass cheeks making a hollow slap against his balls every time. 

It's incredible, really, that he can even breathe. He's pretty sure at some point he couldn't because his chest heaves with every sharp moan you pull from him, your sweet lips suckling against his ear lobe enough to make him cum right now. But he won't, not yet.

"Mm, you like that, pretty boy?" You ask doing it once again, but slower, more tantalizing. A teasing circle of your hips, clenching around the thick throb of him and Eddie nearly chokes on his tongue when he realizes you're spelling his name. 

"Oh my god. Don't stop, please, don't stop." He flushes a deep crimson when you chuckle against his jaw line, pressing fat wet kisses down towards his collarbone. 

"You're so easy, pretty boy. Taking everything I give you and still begging for more. Insatiable boy." You bite into the hot skin at the base of his neck, pulling a wanton moan from his kiss bruised lips. 

"Wanted you for so long, oh Jesus, e-every time you come to me you wear those short little skirts. Driving me nuts." His voice is thoroughly wreaked, cracking against every syllable, hiccupping when you start bouncing on him in earnest, your slick dripping down the seam of his balls.

"So easy." You coo into his ear before yanking his head back harshly. Eddie whimpers at the sudden pain, neck drawn taut as you stare down at him with dark eyes, pupils blown so wide he can barely see their beautiful color. 

"M' close." He manages to gasp out, hand fumbling between your sweaty bodies to rub hard fast circles on your swollen clit. Eddie watches your whole body quake at the added pleasure, falling against his chest as your riding falters slightly. 

"Gonna cum, pretty boy." You wrap your arms around his neck and thread your fingers through his thick hair as you fuck him senselessly, chasing that wicked snap of heat that spreads across your skin as you cum hard and fast, barreling through your climax as it rips a startled moan from your throat. 

Your thighs shake as Eddie takes over, holding tight to your waist as he bucks himself into your spasming core, the sound of how fucking wet you are sending him over the edge only a minute after you. He fucks into as he shoots his hot spend into the condom you pulled from your bra, his arms wrapped tight around you as he holds you close. 

"Holy fuck." 

It's all he can say as he gains his breath back, whining as you pull off of him weakly, thighs still trembling as you sit down beside him and pull your underwear back up your legs.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it." You giggle, grabbing the pack of cigarettes on the floor next to your socked foot as your eyes land on them. Eddie passes you his lighter with a soft smile, watches the way your cheeks hollow around an inhale. 

It was starting to set in as you sat there in silence beside him, head lolled back against the seat, eyes closed; he was simply a rebound. 

Which wouldn't have bothered him had he not had a crush on you since the beginning of time. You'd grown up together in Hawkins, not as friends, but as acquaintances. At the most you'd smile at him when you saw him and never bought in to the shit people said about him. When you came to him last semester he was shocked to say the least. But he was also excited. Excited at the thought of spending time alone with you, even if it was once a week when you needed to re-up. Those thirty minutes were usually his best of the whole week. 

But this changes things, like the way his crush was exploding to sharp jagged pieces at his feet. The creeping feeling of a thing called love crawling through his chest like vines, clinging to bone and tissue.

But he was just a rebound.

A sickening wave of insecurity washes over him and he peeks at you from the corner of his eyes, too scared to really look at you.

"Wa-was it…was it any good…for you?" 

You crack one eye open, thinking if you heard him correctly, head popping up in a quick whish as you sit up fully.

"Was it good for me?" You question back and when Eddie nods you laugh and shove his shoulder. "Fuck yes it was, are you serious?" 

The cheeriness in your voice has him biting at his lip to hide the full blown smile threatening to expose him. He blooms with pride, veins spreading thicker against the cage of his ribs. 

"My thighs are still shaking, actually." You observe out loud. Eddie lets out a sharp guffaw, snatching the joint out of the cigarette pack in the space between you two. 

"You're welcome." It has you rolling your eyes as you take the joint from his fingers, a cigarette still burning between your knuckles. 

"Why'd you ask that?" You ask as you pass the now lit joint back, catching the way his face drops infinitesimally. 

Eddie hides behind the curtain of his hair as he inhales that earthy smoke, holding it in his lungs a little longer than he normally would. 

"Uh, you just got quiet, wanted to make sure." It was a pathetic excuse to cover the even more pathetic truth. 

"Oh, yeah sorry about that. Usually takes a minute to come down from cumming that hard." You mash the cherry of your cigarette into the ashtray before leaning back against the seat, only this time you keep your eyes trained on him. 

"Do you usually cum that hard?" Eddie questions carefully. 

"Honestly, only with myself. No guy has ever made me cum, period." A pause as you raise your eyebrows and tip you head towards him. "Except you, I guess." 

Shit, that was a bigger ego boost than the time he played for twenty-five people at The Hideout, and this time he can’t stop the smile that stretches across his face. 

“Well, you know, I’m always here to help.” 

You giggle at this, busy finishing tying your shoe, Eddie wants to ask you to stay longer but he doesn’t say a word as you shove the little baggie filled with his newest batch of pot into your brown bag. 

“I gotta get home, but uh, thanks. I had fun.” 

Eddie rubs the back of his neck, looking up at you with big round eyes, his smile fading as the back door of the van creaks open. “I’ll see you around?” It wasn’t supposed to be a question, but it comes out as such, his voice breaking off at the end when you peek up at him as your rubber soles slap against the black cracking asphalt as you jump out the van. 

“Later, Eds.” You throw him a wink as you walk away and Eddie sits in his spot on the scratchy carpet of his van with his belt unbuckled and his shirt a wrinkled mess against his chest, listening to the soft hum of your car's motor as you drive off into the night. 

The vines crowding his lungs tighten with your absence, longing for you to come back.  

—

Eddie doesn’t hear from you again for a couple weeks, though he sees you around town hanging with your gaggle of fluffy haired friends, flocked around a couple jocks as they show off for them. He likes the fact that you pay no attention to their sad attempt, instead sitting on top of a picnic table smoking a cigarette, rolling your eyes every time your friends erupt into a chorus of giggles.

It’s not until almost a month later that you show up at his front door, banging incessantly until Eddie answers. 

“Uh, hey?” He watches you pace the brown carpet of the living room, hands shaking at your sides, face scrunched up in frustration. “Are you okay?” Eddie starts to walk towards you but you beat him to it, crossing the space between your bodies, eyes wild and watery. 

“I really need a distraction right now, do you… do you have any weed?” He’s never seen you this irate before and it worries him. What made you so upset that you'd seek him out in the middle of the night?

“How much do you need?” He asks gently as he leads you to his bedroom. He leaves you to look around as he squats next to his desk, yanking open the bottom drawer to reveal his stash. 

“I- I have enough for a dime bag, that’s it.” You mutter out, running a delicate finger across the strings of his acoustic. 

Eddie quickly bags twenty dollars worth of the sticky green bud, knees popping as he stands and hands it to you. 

“This… Eddie this is way more than a gram.” You eye him suspiciously, unsure if he’s made a mistake or not. 

“No, I know. It’s fine, half price.” Eddie shrugs, shifting from one bare foot to the other, he doesn’t like the way you’re looking at him like he’s done something wrong. 

“No.” You shake your head, shoving the baggie into his chest as you shake your head. “You’d be totally ripping yourself off. Gimme ten dollars worth and I’ll get out of your hair.” 

“Come on, sweetheart, just take it. You’re my best customer anyways.” Eddie starts to smile but it quickly vanishes as your eyes fill with tears and your entire face falls. “Hey, hey, please don’t cry!” 

He guides you to sit on his bed, your body crumpling in on itself as you cover your face with shaking hands. He’s clueless on what to do, settles on rubbing a steady hand up and down your back. 

“F-fuck, I’m sorry, Eddie.” You’re wiping at your cheeks, eyes darting around his dimly lit room. “I’ve had such a shit week, I can’t believe I’m crying at my dealers house.” You scoff a humorless laugh that makes him frown. 

My dealers house. Is that all you saw him as, your dealer? He’d hoped after the last time he’d at least be considered a friend.

“Wanna talk about it?” He offers, lips twisting into a one sided smile when you meet his eyes.

“You don’t wanna hear about my shit.” You deadpan, your face sullen, eyes blank. You look like you haven’t slept in days, the bags under your eyes incredibly telling.  

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn't want to know.” He counters, leaning over you to grab his abandoned joint from the ashtray. 

You hesitate before erupting into a fast paced tangent that Eddie can barely keep up with. College and your parents and your ex boyfriend sleeping with the one girl he always told you not to worry about. By the time you're done talking you've slumped down into his pillows, eyes glued to the ceiling as you calm your breathing. 

"I'm just so tired, I wanted to be an adult so bad and now… now I wish I could be as careless as a child again." You sigh deeply, fingers toying with a loose thread on his pillow case. Eddie crawls up beside you after stubbing out the joint you'd been sharing. 

"Sounds like a lot." He says, balling up one of his blankets into a makeshift pillow. You look over at him, eyes hooded with exhaustion and yet still so pretty. 

"I'm sorry, I came over here and cried and dumped all my shit on you without even asking how you were." You turn on your side to face him, hand tucked under your cheek. "How are you, Eddie?" 

He chuckles. "Right now? Right now I'm laying next to the prettiest girl in Hawkins so… doing pretty good, sweetheart." 

You roll your eyes at him but the toothy smile on your face tells him all he needs to know. "Always the charmer, aren't you, Eddie Munson." 

"Always." He whispers, reaching out to stroke his finger down your cheek. Your eyes flutter shut and you yawn. "Hey, uh, if you want you can sleep here for a little bit."

"Yeah?" You ask through an even bigger yawn. "You sure you won't mind?"

"Not at all. Sleep." With that he covers your body with his softest blanket before rolling off the bed. He pulls the string on his side lamp before shutting the door, the sound of your soft snores already filtering through the air.

— 

He doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until he's woken up suddenly, a warm body pressing into his own on the small space of the couch.

"I didn't mean to wake you." You whisper in the darkness, smoothing your hand down the front of his shirt, your head laid against his shoulder. Eddie moves to wrap his arm around you, securing your body to his so you won't fall off as he shifts to make more room. 

"S'okay, sweetheart." Truthfully he can't remember even laying down, let alone letting sleep carry him under. His heart picks up its pace when your hand stills to rest right below his belly button, thumb coasting soothingly against the waistband of his boxers. 

A peaceful quiet takes over, neither of you speaking as you settle into his warm embrace. He can't help but love the way you feel pressed against him this, not sexual, but still intimate in a way Eddie has never experienced. 

"Hey, Eddie?" You speak after a while. "I'm sorry I ran out on you that night in your van." If you feel him tense under you as your fingers breach the elastic of his boxers, you don't say anything.

Eddie can't seem to say anything either, not when your hand keeps going lower and lower and his heart is racing so fast it threatens to burst from his chest. 

"I didn't want to leave and I guess that's the problem. I never want to leave when I'm with you." You grasp his thick length in your hands, tightening your grip at his tip, thumb swiping over his leaking slit. "This okay?" You ask softly into the sensitive skin of his neck, teeth nipping at the skin there when he nods.

"Use your words, baby." 

"Don't fucking stop." It rushes out from between his lips in a hurried whisper, his eyes clenching tight as your hand explores his throbbing cock.

"Feels good?" You ask and he's sure you already know the answer by the way he can't stop his hips from bucking up into your hand. 

"I think about that night a lot, you know. Haven't even been interested in anyone else since it happened. Can only think about you." You're fucking panting in his ear, like you're working yourself up with your own words. 

"Need you to fuck me, Eddie. Need to feel you inside me again. Can't stop thinking about it. Think I might be addicted to you-" 

Eddie has you flat against your back on his hard floor, quieting your surprised yelp with his mouth slotted against your own. 

He kisses you fiercely, hands cupping your cheeks as your teeth click and he grinds his hard cock into the space between your legs. 

"Fuck me, Eddie, please." Your breath fans hot across his cheek and despite his raging hard on and his desperate need to be inside you; he stops. 

Because once again, that nefarious thought weaves its way into his brain until it's all he can think of, flashing across the backs of his eyes like a giant neon sign. 

He is still only a rebound.

"I can't." He says, sitting on his knees between your spread thighs. 

"Ed- what? What's wrong?" You scurry to sit up, almost smacking your foreheads together if Eddie hadn't moved just in time to avoid a painful collision. The wideness of your eyes, the rejection settled inside the brilliant color of your irises make his heart thud painfully.

"I can't do this just because you're vulnerable and lonely." His tone is hard, harder than he meant it to be, but he doesn't stop to fix it. He can't fuck you and watch you leave. Not again. 

"I'm not that fucking vulnerable, Eddie." You hiss, scooting away from him. 

"I watched you cry not even three hours ago, sweetheart. You're exhausted and vulnerable and what type of man would I be if I took advantage of that?" He can see your guard going up, that wall you've built out of brick and barbed wire to protect yourself. He doesn't want you to pull away, slip through his fingers, but Eddie also doesn't want to be the guy you fuck just because you feel bad. 

"Is that what you think? That I'm only fucking you because I feel bad about myself?" 

It takes a minute for Eddie to realize what he's said out loud and by then you've already blown past him to his bedroom, closing in on the front door with your purse in hand once you've returned from the back of his trailer.

You stop right as your hand touches the cold metal of the door knob, turning back sharply on your heel to glare at the boy still kneeling on his living room floor. You toss the ten dollar bill at him and he watches it flutter weakly to the carpet.

"Just so you know, I fucked you because I like you, not because you were the only guy who would listen to my shit." Your chin wobbles once before you purse your lips tightly, nostrils flaring as you suck in a shaky breath willing yourself not to cry. "You can be a real jerk, Eddie Munson." 

Then you're gone and he can hear your shoes stomp down his front steps, the slam of your car door, the scatter of gravel as you peel out of the trailer park, and Eddie hangs his head feeling like a fucking idiot.

"Fuck!" He screams, punching his fists into the carpet over and over until the searing pain radiates up his wrists. He collapses back against the couch with a full thud, palms pressed hard into his eye sockets. 

Inside his chest, beneath the growing, crawling, mass of vines- his heart aches. 

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut

[moonctzeny]

The Bet

au+trope+prompt game: coffee shop!au Mark + enemies to lovers + is that the best you can do?

pairing: mark lee + fem!reader

other members as background characters: lucas

genre: fluff (only some suggestive stuff)

word count: 3,796

warnings: slight objectification of reader, suggestive stuff, heavy making out, a boner, i guess a stockings kink

summary: “When you took that part time job as a barista at your local café, you only cared about grabbing your check while doing the least work possible. But when your supervisor, Mark Lee, keeps getting praised and winning ‘Employee Of The Month’, you offer a bet, to prove him that he’s no better than you. The outcome? Your relationship changing forever.”

a/n: hbd baby <3

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

It started off as just a little part time job.

College life was not easy to cope with financially, and eating instant noodles for a week straight could only save you so much money. So when you saw the ‘Barista Wanted’ sign at the cafe that was just a block away from your house, you didn’t miss your chance for a few extra bucks. And that’s all that job would be for you. Doing the least work possible for the minimum wage you were given, if it wasn’t for him. Mark Lee.

Mark was sweet, honestly. He greeted you with a smile when you first came in and showed you around. He was a bit shy when he awkwardly stated that he was kind of like a supervisor there. But the way that the boss would go on and on about how great he was, every Monday morning, was starting to get annoying. So was his ability to always save your ass whenever you made a mess in front of your boss. So was his picture hanging in the “Employee Of The Month” frame right from across the bar. That kid won that title every.single.month. And no overtimes, sweeping or mopping from your part seemed to change your boss’s mind.

It all began when you and Lucas, another part-time worker whose shift started right after yours, were talking about whether you would make rent this month. Mark was sitting next to you, occupied with organizing some cups by size, but decided to chip in.

“Well”, he sighed “guess we’re just gonna have to eat the rich. Or take that pole dancing class you mentioned, Lucas.”

The taller boy found it funny, letting out his signature giggle and you would too, if Mark’s damn “Employee of the Month” picture wasn’t staring right into your soul, mocking you.

You rolled your eyes. “Not all of us are lucky enough to get that sweet I-love-kissing-the-boss’s-ass bonus every month, Lee”. Lucas whistled at your comment, used to your bickering but still very entertained.

“Careful how you speak to your supervisor, y/n or you’ll never get to be employee of the month”.

“Oh please”, you scoff “having extra keys to the back exit and cleaning the coffee machine twice a week? That’s wayyy too much responsibility”.

Sarcasm was dripping from your voice, but you were only half lying. You didn’t give a flying fuck for the position. You just wanted it because he had it. And that certain “he” was starting to get a little tired from your constant degradation. Mark smirked at you, but anger was evident on his expression.

“You should be thanking me, you know. At least you get to mooch off of my tips”.

Lucas yelled a drawn out “ooohhh” but you could barely hear him. Your eyes were piercing Mark’s, too busy keeping yourself from blurting out every profanity that came to your head in that moment. Instead, you took a deep breath.

“You think you make more tips than me?”, you asked calmly. Cockier than ever, the boy instantly replies with a “I know I do”, never breaking eye contact. This was your chance, you thought. The chance to prove yourself and shut him up for good.

“How about we make a little bet?”

Mark raised his bow-shaped brows, focusing his attention solely on you.

“Let’s put separate tip jars next to the cashing machine for the rest of the week. If I make more, you’ll convince the boss to remove that horrible frame for good”. He followed your eyes to his picture on the wall, and nodded.

“And when I win?”, he asked curiously and you chose to ignore his little play on words. You furrowed your brows, trying to think of a good motivation for him, as if his competitive nature wasn’t enough.

“OH! OH!” Lucas interrupted, “she can go on a date with that creepy friend of yours that always comes to the cafe to see her!”

Mark’s eyes instantly lit up at the idea. He handed out his pinky, looking to seal the deal with you.

“Bet’s on”, he said, with a seriousness that looked foreign on his cute features, and motioned to his pinky with his eyes, urging you to intertwine it with yours.

You sighed and walked away, muttering a “God, you are so lame”, but the next morning you came to work with a jar with your name written all pretty on it.

You didn’t really have a strategy per se. In fact, you had completely forgotten about the bet, too busy preparing orders and running around. You were cleaning up for Lucas to take your place in the shift, when you felt Mark looking down at you from the other side of the counter that usually separated you from the costumers. “May I be of help, sir?”, you asked him mockingly, not bothering to spare him a glance.

“You should wear those white thigh highs. You look cute in them.”

“Huh? What?”, you ask in confusion, still cleaning the surface carefully.

“In your date with Jason”, he explained with a teasing tone in his voice, Jason being his ‘creepy friend’ as Lucas calls him. Why did he have to piss you off right when you were ready to go home?

You continued to ignore him, only muttering a “I’m not going on that date”, when you hear a clinging sound and finally look up at Mark.

“You sure?”

He was holding the two tip jars, swinging them around. To your horror, Mark’s had more than twice the money than yours.

“WHAT??” you let out and immediately regretted it when some costumers looked at you like you were crazy. You continued with a whispered yell, “How the fuck did that happen??”

Mark grinned at you and lifted his shoulders innocently, before walking away. He must have cheated by slipping in coins when you weren’t looking, that sly motherfucker.

That’s it, you decided, on Wednesday you were going to spy on his every move.

After watching him intently for the whole morning, you came to the conclusion that Mark had a way of making everybody like him. Whether it was him memorizing the regulars and their orders, or asking them if they knew some random Will Smith song about Miami, he was always the textbook example of an eager, smiley and pleasant barista. Even you smiled at the sight of him fumbling with the pen when two pretty girls gave him their names to write on the coffee cups. He flashed them a smile and mumbled an apology, and you watched as they cooed at him and left a very generous tip. You were almost convinced by his adorable act, when he turned around and winked your way.

Ugh, you hated Mark Lee.

You decided that making a better connection with the customers was the way to go. You weren’t the type to start a conversation about the weather out of the blue, nor did you know any Will Smith songs, so you decided on drawing a little doodle on the cup next to their names with every order. The younger ones thought it was a nice addition to their snapchat story, the older ones found you cute. And as they came back for a coffee refill, your jar started filling up as well. It wasn’t much but you were getting closer to reaching the 3/4 of Mark’s tips, so you were pretty happy with yourself.

You were drawing a little heart for a latte when you smelled his cologne. You felt his breath pushing away at the hairs that were sticking out from your ponytail at the nape of your neck. You hated how it sent a shiver to your spine, how it made your hands a little shaky and how the heart drawing turned out a little wonky.

Mark was your “enemy” and your supervisor and Mr. Annoyingly Perfect but Mark was also hot. You would never admit it, but you even had a little crush on him when you started working there. You might pull a disgusted face every time Lucas tells you that the solution to your constant bickering was to “just fuck already”, but you wondered whether it was his oblivion to your crush that made your little hatred towards him grow. And you’d be lying if you said that you never stared at his cute ass sticking out of his apron a second too long, or that it didn’t turn you on when he got pissed at the ice getting stuck in the blender.

So now that he was almost pressing against you from behind, closer than ever, you wouldn’t mind at all. That is if he didn’t open his god damn mouth.

“Really?”, he scoffed “Is that the best you can do?”

His tone was so condescending that it made you furious, pressing your nails in the paper cup, and you were surprised that the liquid didn’t spill everywhere. He gave you a victorious smirk from getting that reaction out of you, and you wanted to punch it right off of his face.

Oh, that meant war.

On Thursday morning, you walked in looking the best you’ve ever looked for a morning shift. You had your hair in pigtails, hair bands matching the color of your lowcut dress. Your lengthened the straps of your apron, your cleavage not leaving much to the imagination.

It was ridiculous, you thought, how many tips a push up bra can get you. It only took a couple customers for the word to spread and the horny men to line up at the cafe. You batted your eyelashes at them, the “Good morning, I’m here to serve you, how can I help you sir?”driving them nuts. You had to say it every time, shop’s policy, but now it sounded more suggestive than ever. You were disgusted by their gawking eyes and terrible attempts at flirting, but you had a goal.

And hell were you winning. You weren’t sure if it was your jar that was filling up at an amazing rate or your outfit, but that was the first time you ever saw Mark make a mistake in his orders. You swore you felt his gaze following you around all day, murmuring something to himself every time a customer asked him if the pretty girl could serve them instead.

It was the end of the shift, and you were happily chatting with Lucas as you were cleaning up the counter. He was doing a terrible job at keeping his eyes away from your chest, but when it came to someone as good looking as him, you really didn’t mind the attention. You took your apron off and started folding it neatly when Mark took your wrist and dragged you into the storage room.

He held a bunch of wrinkly paper towels in his hands. You noticed something was written with a pen messily on each of them.

“This is the seventh phone number that a dude has given me today”, he told you as he stared into your eyes, careful not to move his gaze any more south. It was your turn to mess with him.

“Well good for you”, you said with a smile, “Didn’t know you were so popular with men, Mark”

He closed his eyes, trying to control his temper, and shoved the towels towards you.

“They’re for you. They asked me to pass them to you. After the third guy I forgot what their names were but you can figure them out yourself”. You took them from him with a quiet “oh, thanks” and he sighed.

“You can’t come in here looking like that. This is a workplace.”

You looked at him with wide eyes and fake innocence. “Like what? What’s wrong with my outfit?”. His patience was running short.

“Why don’t you ask Lucas” he replied, with a tone that started to piss you off.

“If you can’t control your hormones like you’re some teenage boys, that’s not my prob-“ you start but he cuts you off. You had never seen him act so stern.

“We have a dress code. Maybe the boss can remind you, if you want”.

It was the first time Mark had actually pulled the supervisor card on you and you felt a little hurt by the coldness of his voice. You swear you saw a bit of instant regret in his eyes but you decided to leave the matter alone, and left the storage room after ostentatiously throwing the phone numbers in the bin next to the door.

Friday was the last day of the bet. You didn’t show up with a flashy outfit, because 1) you didn’t want to risk losing your job for a stupid bet and 2) because straight men were annoying and so were their pickup lines that you didn’t want to deal with. You did wear the white thigh highs Mark mentioned though, with a skirt whose length followed the dress code, just to tease him a little bit. You had never worn them in work before, but when you ran across Mark one day on your way home from a girls’ night out, both a little drunk and disoriented, he didn’t hide his admiration towards them.

He noticed right away when you walked in the café this afternoon. Fridays were the only days when you took the later shift instead of the morning one. You hated it because that meant having to work with Mark until closing, and due to his perfectionism you’d always be staying with him overtime, cleaning every inch of the place, and never participating in any Friday parties that your friends hosted.

You were a little worried that things would be awkward between you after your little argument yesterday, but when he pointed at your stockings and asked if you were “dressed up for the date already”, you knew he didn’t keep any hard feelings and neither did you. What you didn’t expect was his jar to be as full as yours, if not more.

You panicked, and took Lucas to the side, making him promise that he would tell you if he had cheated while you were gone or not. He shrugged.

“Sorry, pretty, no cheating. A high school visited the park across the street as a field trip. The girls went crazy over him. Pretty sure they spent all their allowance here”.

At that you dropped your shoulders in defeat and worked your shift with a pout on your face. You wouldn’t take the humiliation of losing the bet, especially after the little stunt you pulled on Thursday. The hours went by agonizingly slow, and the moment you were dreading finally came.

You turned the “Sorry, we’re closed” sign at the glass entrance door, as you were mopping the floor. All the costumers were gone, and your boss had left the keys to you and Mark, asking you to lock up instead as he had ‘an errand to run’. You wished that your coworker would somehow forget about your bet and spare you the embarrassment, but instead, he gave you a devilish side smirk and motioned you to come closer.

He emptied his jar first, and started counting out loud in front of you, insisting that you do it out together so as not to pull any “funny business”.

40 bucks. It wasn’t bad, it was good actually, and you groaned, now feeling more nervous than ever.

Mark on the other hand, relaxed his shoulders and happily started counting your tips this time. His smile started to wear off, though, as you did much better that he thought. You were neck-to-neck, figuratively and almost literally, as your heads nearly bumped together in deep concentration.

“37,38,39,40…41,42,43” he whispered out and you couldn’t believe your eyes.

You won. You actually won. You never had to see that stupid “Employee Of The Month” frame ever again and most importantly, you were finally better than Mark at something.

You let out a high-pitched squeal, jumping up and down excitedly on your spot, strikingly different that the boy next to you, who was frozen in place.

“I woooon” you teased him with a sing-song voice “and you looooost, loserrr”

It was an understatement to say that Mark was fuming.

“It’s not fair!” he yelled and pointed an accusing finger towards you. You rolled your eyes and walked further back, next to the counter with the coffee machines, happily swinging your hips.

“Don’t be a sore loser Mark, I won fair and square”

“I’m not a sore loser!”, he whines, “I was at a disadvantage!”

You raise an eyebrow and turn towards him, to see that he had taken a few steps at your direction. “Oh yeah? And what is that?”

“You’re hot!”, he groans and rubs his hands over his face. “Hell, I would die from a caffeine overdose if it meant seeing you with your little pigtails and that top and that smile, ready to ‘serve me, sir’”

You could feel your ears and cheeks turning on fire and you’d blame it on the flattery, but his horrible high-pitched impression of your voice was what made you too angry to fully process what he said.

You grabbed a syrup bottle from the counter behind you and pointed it towards his face.

“Ugh, Mark! You’re so annoying! Why do you always need to be the best at everything!”

You barged into him, squeezing the bottle over his face. With his quick reflexes he swiftly grabbed your hand, successfully immobilizing you, but you had already managed to get a big, fat line of syrup right across his lips.

In a moment of clarity, you stopped resisting and became aware of the position you and Mark were in. You had moved backwards as a result of your fight, the countertop digging in your lower back. His one hand was grabbing at your lifted arm by the wrist, the other resting on the marbled surface behind you in an effort to detain you. To top it all off, you stared at the mess you made on his lips, coupled by the unreadable look on his eyes.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you thought. This is your supervisory/n! You know, the guy in charge when the boss is gone? The guy that you basically jumped because of a stupid bet? That you actually won? But will still get you fired?

You were getting ready to move away and profusely apologize to Mark, your eyes frantically moving from his eyes, to his lips, to his “Employee Of The Month” picture from across the room. He, however, stayed still, only releasing your wrist to now place his hand under your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“Clean this mess”, he demanded, in a tone you would have never expected from Mark, “immediately”

In the seconds that followed his demand, the tension between you two was thicker than the drizzle that still decorated his mouth. He came even closer, your noses only a centimeter apart, his fingers pressing on your face lightly.

You were worried whether you read the room wrong or not, because if you did, your next move would most certainly get you fired.

He could barely hear your whispered “here to serve you” before you finally closed the distance between you.

You pulled his bottom lip between your lips, your tongue shyly sweeping across it, collecting the syrup that was starting to dry into a sugary paste. He was soft like a cloud and tasted like caramel. You repeated the motion for his top lip when you felt him melt into your kiss. The moment was sweet like the taste in your mouth, but it changed as soon as you felt him grab the back of your thighs, lifting you on the top of the counter.

You matched his hunger by sucking on his bottom lip this time, determined to clean him up as best as you could. He moaned your name into the kiss, his fingertips digging in the inside of his favorite thigh highs. Your skirt had well ridden up, allowing him to pinch the fabric of one of them.

“These” he started, his lips now sucking on your neck, “almost cost me my supervisor’s position with all the messing up they made me do”

He let the elastic snap against your thigh, earning a small gasp from you and you decided to tease him a little.

“Is that so huh? Because I’m so hot? With my boobs and my pigtails and my willingness to serve?” you ask with a laugh, and you feel him smile against his deep kiss over your pulse, grabbing your legs to scoot your ass and pull you closer.

“Because you’ve been driving me crazy ever since you got this job. And because you look so fucking sexy when you’re mad”

His boldness made you desperate as you tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled him back up into a passionate kiss. It was sticky and hot and full of tongue, and you felt something poking on the inside of your thigh before a loud noise made you snap and pull away from each other in shock.

You looked at the floor to see a, thankfully not broken, but dismantled blender, that you must have pushed off the counter in the heat of the moment. You stare down at Mark as you both laugh at the situation, his hair messy and lips swollen and you know you definitely mirrored his look.

He cleared his throat. “Uhh, not that I don’t enjoy this, cause I really do, but if we keep at it Lucas is going to be the next Employee Of The Month, and not only is that ridiculous, but we would both basically lose our little bet”

You laughed at his comment and let your feet dangle awkwardly, your cheeks heating at the thought of what might have happened if you two had kept going.

“I’m sorry for being such a bitch about your framed picture” you said with a small voice, avoiding his gaze “you don’t have to take it down”

He smiled at your attempt at peace as he picked up the blender pieces and skillfully riveted them in place. Your eyes suddenly widened before adding, “I will NOT go on a date with your creepy friend though”

Mark giggled at that and shook his head before returning his eyes back at you. His cheeks were flushed a crimson red, deep in thought.

“How about me?” he blurted, “I mean, how about going on a date with me instead?”

You nodded your head, reaching a hand out to fix the messy locks out of his eyes.

“Yes. I think I’d love that”

#mark lee scenarios #nct scenarios #mark lee #mark lee fluff #nct fluff #mark lee birthday #nct au #nct 127 #superm

[fandom-imagines-stories]

The Last Toll

Dean Winchester x Reader

Words: 3865

Part One; Part Two

Summary: Trying to protect the boys from having to witness your death, you leave the bunker to die alone. Dean and Sam desperately try to find you before time runs out. 

Notes: Here it is. The final part in this trilogy of twists and lots of angst. I am super proud of how this series turned out and I hope you guys enjoyed the ride. As always, let me know what you think! (But hey, keep an eye out in the future for possible continuations)

Warnings: Death, gore, sacrifice, lots of angst and tears

Special shout out to my amazing beta reader Sarah, @suckmysupernatural​ . I love her so much and honestly, she’s helped me so much in getting these imagines out for you and she has some absolutely killer writing of her own!

Want more Supernatural? Find it HERE

-

Monday 6:00 A.M.

You had exactly 18 hours left on Earth. 18 hours until a big invisible dog carries you in its mouth down to the eternal Big House. After arguing with Dean last night, it was finally hitting you. You were going to hell. An endless circle of torment that you had no escape from. Beside you, Dean turned over, still fast asleep. You smiled to yourself. You were going for him. 

Carefully lifting the blanket, you silently got out of the bed. You grabbed some clothes and stuffed them into your bag. It would be easier to change in the car. You couldn’t risk waking anyone up. 

You snuck out into the kitchen, quickly ducking behind the wall when you saw a trench coat laid over one of the chairs, it’s owner flipping through a book. Why can’t angels take naps? You tiptoed towards the entrance, making as little noise as possible. 

“You won’t get far.” Cas scolded, not even looking up from his cookbook. You sighed heavily. Busted.

“I can’t stay.” You stepped into the kitchen, putting your bag on the table. “I’ve put them through enough. I have to do this alone.”

“You know what Dean would say?” Cas inquired. You hated when he tried to guilt trip you. “He would say,” the angel lowered his voice to impersonate your boyfriend, “‘You’re one of us. And none of us goes down alone.’ Don’t you want to be with the people who love you? With the man you love so much you sold your soul?” It was odd to hear him speak so emotionally. You could feel tears welling, but you forced them back. If you cried one more time, you’d scream.

“I got to see him one last time. I got to see those eyes bright with life again. I got to kiss him again.” He looked ready to rebuttal so you stopped him. “This isn’t the first time this has happened, Cas. I can’t make Sam watch that again. And Dean…” You sighed, “The only thing that would come from them being there when the bitch comes is more trauma for them to carry around.” You put a hand on his shoulder, urging him to understand. “Let their last memory of me be a good one.” Cas was silent for a moment. 

“Alright.” You exhaled a breath of relief. You knew he would understand. Cas stood and grabbed his trench coat. “But I’m driving.” Your relief was replaced with frustration. 

“Cas, no-”

“Spare the Winchesters if that’s really what you want. There may not be a way out of this, but you will not go alone.” He was using his angel voice and there was no fighting him on this one. With a huff, you conceded. 

“Fine, but I am picking the music.”

-

9:34 A.M.

You’d kept your phone on silent, ignoring all of the calls you had anticipated. If you heard his voice, you would make Cas turn the car around. You did, however, try and read the avalanche of text messages you were receiving from both brothers. 

Don’t do this.

You don’t have to face this on your own.

Please baby, answer the phone.

One of Sam’s messages in particular sent a pang of guilt through your heart. 

Dean’s going nuts over here. We both are. Please just come home. If only to say goodbye.

“Regretting your decision?” Cas wondered gruffly. You shot him a look and turned on the radio. Cas changed the channel quickly as ‘Highway to Hell’ played, muttering that it was inappropriate given the circumstances. Instead, he found a  station playing Night Ranger’s ‘Sister Christian’. You felt that ache in your chest come back. 

“Now what?” Cas read your expression. 

“Nothing, it’s just this song.” You had to laugh at how sentimental you were being. “Dean played it all the time when we first became a couple. He liked to joke that he was the ‘Mr. Right’ I’d been so desperately looking for.” The memory made you smile and you imagined being in the impala with Dean singing from the driver’s side. 

“Motoring!” He would belt. “What’s your price for flight? You’ve got him in your sight. And driving through the night.” You would both sing the guitar part and laugh. 

“Y/N… Y/N.” Cas broke you out of the memory, seeing the sadness in your eyes. You hadn’t even realized that he had stopped the car. “I figured you would want some coffee.” You looked out the window and saw the gas station he had parked in front of. 

“You’re a saint, Cas,” You exclaimed, the grumbling in your stomach finally getting your attention. The angle looked very confused. 

“Y/N, I can’t be a saint. I’m an angel.”

“It’s just an expression.” You laughed, opening the car door. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

Cas knew that if you were anything like your boyfriend, you’d pursue the aisle for some pre-packaged junk food for a while before checking out. Which gave him about ten minutes to return a very angry call. 

“Where are you? Is she with you? What the hell Cas?” Dean yelled into the receiver. Sam sat at the table, still trying to find you, but you must have turned the tracker on your phone off. 

“She’s okay, Dean.”

“Bring her back. Now.”

“I can’t. She’ll run if she thinks I’m taking her to you.” Cas explained, keeping an eye on you as you moved through the candies. “We’re stopped at a gas station in Topeka.”

“Where are you headed?” 

“She won’t say.” Cas sighed. “She just tells me what turns to make and what roads to follow. Although, she did mention something about ‘seeing the old place again’, whatever that means.” Cas watched you pay for your items and head for the exit. “I’ve got to go.”

“Cas, wait!” Dean said, but the line was already dead. “Damn it!” He tossed the phone across the table. Sam caught it before it could slide off. 

“He wouldn’t tell you?” 

“He doesn’t know!” The older Winchester exclaimed in frustration. “He said Y/N is just telling him as they go. The only clue she’s given him is ‘seeing the old place again.’” 

“Did he say where they were stopped at least?”

“Some gas station in Topeka, so they could be heading anywhere.” Dean paced back and forth. He should have known you would pull something like this. You thought you were protecting him by facing this alone. Hell, you’d been doing it since you were a kid. Dean stopped suddenly. 

“What is it?” Sam asked and his brother grabbed the keys to his car. 

“I know where she’s going.”

-

2:14 P.M.

You hadn’t seen the house in about twenty years. Then, it was a family home- bikes left on the lawn, your mother’s tulips overtaking the garden, your terrible chalk drawings covering the driveway. Now, the wood was rotting and a tall chain link fence surrounded the premises. 

“What are we doing here?” Cas wondered, turning off the truck as you hopped out. The bottle of anger liquid practically glowed in the afternoon sun. You took a swig.

“This, my friend, is where I grew up.” You surveyed the house and nodded. “And it’s where I want to die.” You tucked the bottle in your bag and climbed the fence, landing on the other side with a dramatic flare. Cas let out an exasperated sigh. 

“What happened here?” He asked, reading all of the ‘Condemned Building’, ‘Do Not Enter’ signs. He followed you over the fence, clumsily tumbling onto the other side. 

“When I was fifteen, my brother came home from college for the weekend. Only, it wasn’t my brother.” The old wounds didn’t hurt as much anymore, but being here again certainly made them sting a little. “It was a shifter. Now, my parents were hunters before they had us, so they figured out something was wrong…just not fast enough.” It all felt so far away now. “After he killed them, he came after me. Somehow, I got the upper hand and sent a silver kitchen knife through his heart. That’s how I started hunting.” Cas put a hand on your shoulder. 

“I’m sorry.” You just shrugged sadly. 

“It was a long time ago.” You were able to pick the lock on the front door, the smell of mold and dirt filling your nostrils. Home sweet home. 

Somehow, the kitchen table was still standing and the sliding glass door leading to the back porch was intact. Your father always used to joke that it was bulletproof. The last time you were in this room, you stabbed a creature that looked like your big brother. And that was shockingly the least complicated your life had been in twenty years.

“Make yourself at home Cas. I’ve got about,” You looked down at your watch, “nine hours and forty minutes until I become a chew toy and I’m going to spend it reminiscing and getting very, very drunk.” Cas gave you a look of disdain. “Hey, I didn’t ask you to be here.”

“You are handling your impending damnation remarkably well.” He sat down in a creaky chair as you started to empty out your bag. 

“I’m not going to spend my last few hours cowering in the corner, Cas.” You opened the small tin box that you had brought. “I can’t fight what’s going to happen to me. The most I can do is stay here, away from Sam and Dean, and wait.” You repeated it over and over in your head as if you could convince yourself. Every bone in your body wanted to fight. It’s just who you were. You survived. But now, you were staring down the gaping mouth of hell for the man who taught you to live. 

-

4:36 P.M.

You may have had a three hour head start to St. Louis, but Cas couldn’t drive like Dean could. Both brothers continued their attempts to call you but it was still to now avail. It didn’t matter. They knew where to find you.

The exact address of your childhood home was not hard to find. Your parent’s deaths were well publicized so Sam just followed the trail of articles. Sure enough, Cas’ truck was parked in front of the condemned building. 

“Why would she pick this place?” Sam asked, taking in the sad sight. 

“This is where it all started for her.” Dean answered somberly. “It’s where she wants it to end.”

Inside, a half empty bottle of Jack sat beside the pile of photographs you had been looking through. You told Cas dozens of stories, some through laughter, some tears, and some both. With music playing from your phone, you didn’t hear the new set of footprints until the Winchesters were standing in front of you. You jumped up from the table, the alcohol in your system making you dizzy.

“You told them!” You cast an accusing glare at the angel beside you.

“This isn’t what you want.” He replied in a quiet voice. You turned your panicked face back to the brothers. Sam’s expression held a sad understanding, but you couldn’t read Dean’s. He stepped towards you. 

“You have to leave.” You ordered, backing away as he got closer. “I don’t want you here for this. Get back in the impala and leave.” You backed into the corner and Dean towered over you. “Please, Dean.” His eyes searched yours and knew. He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin. 

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

You didn’t fight him. You let him hold onto you as your body started to shake. It was another one of your selfish reasons for leaving. If he wasn’t here, if you couldn’t look at his face, you could pretend that you weren’t scared. Now he was here and all of that tough-girl bullcrap was gone.

“I’m right here baby.” He kissed your forehead, taking all of your stress and putting it on his shoulders. You would carry this together. 

“Why did you leave?” Sam asked gently. You turned, Dean keeping his arms around you from behind. 

“Because you shouldn’t have to see this, Sam. You watched it happen to your brother, I couldn’t make you watch it again. Neither of you should be put through this.” Dean lightly kissed your shoulder. 

“You can’t do this alone.” He whispered. 

“I had Cas.” You smirked. The three of you laughed, Cas even cracking a smile.

“Why don’t I go to a restaurant with quick service and get food?” Cas suggested.

“Fast food. It’s called fast food.” Dean snickered into your shoulder. You elbowed him. 

“That would be great.”

The sound of a clock chiming startled all of you, Dean instinctively pushing you behind him. Sam sighed. 

“It’s okay, It’s only five.” You were all so on edge that it felt later. The clock echoed still, connecting a memory in your mind.

“No way.” You broke away from Dean and found the living room. You must not have heard it earlier because of the music. Sure enough, the gigantic Grandfather clock was still ticking. “I can’t believe it still works.” You mused, running your fingers over the dust covered glass. “My dad loved this thing. He never let us play around it because he was scared that my brother and I would break it.” By some cruel irony, it lasted longer than he did. 

-

10:29 P.M.

With stomachs full of fries and mediocre burgers, you had climbed up onto the roof- which was surprisingly still sturdy- to look at the stars. Five hours passed in a blink and you were all getting anxious. Sam and Cas were inside, giving you and Dean time alone. 

“I want you to have this.” You began, talking over the music playing from your phone. You handed him the small tin that you kept all your pictures in. Dean raised a brow and you playfully rolled your eyes. “And no, there’s no playboy material in there so you can wipe that smirk off your face.” Dean chuckled and draped around your shoulders to pull you closer. 

He opened the box and spilled the contents into his lap. The first image made him laugh. It was of you and Sam, fast asleep on a motel sofa, your head on his shoulder and half of his body dangling over the arm of the couch. Someone- aka Dean- had drawn mustaches on your faces. 

“I forgot about this.” Dean put each photo back in the box as he looked at them. Some were from when you were a kid, but most were from your time with them. He paused at one in particular. It was of you hugging him from behind as he worked under the hood of the impala, both of you laughing at something he had said. You were at Bobby’s. Ellen had taken it.

“Damn,” Dean muttered, putting the picture on top of the others. You knew what he was thinking. He’d lost so many people. His parents, Bobby, Ellen and Jo, and countless others. Now he would have to add you to the list. 

“When it comes, I’ll need to borrow your gun.” You said suddenly. He gave you a strange look, taking a second to understand. “I figured it would be a better way to go than becoming dog food.” Dean winced. This was not a subject he wanted to address. A part of him still had hope. 

“Maybe there’s still a way.” 

“Dean,” You sighed, “there would need to be an act of God or the gates of hell closing.” You had a little less than an hour now. Dean’s eyes lit up and he shifted to face you. 

“That’s it. That’s how we can fight this.” 

“Dean, what are you talking about?”

“When Sam was completing the trails, he was able to kill a hellhound with an angel blade. We can kill it.” His voice had a new sense of determination.

“Dean, there would just be more.” You scoffed. He couldn’t be serious.

“So we kill them!” He said it as if it was simple. “It’ll at least buy us more time to undo the deal.”

“Dean…” You looked at him like he was crazy, but the new found hope on his face made it impossible to rebuke. 

“It’ll work.” He said, more to himself than to you. “It has to work.” You both fell silent, listening to the music. You almost laughed. Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’. You sang along in your head.

“And it’s whispered that soon, if we call the tune then the piper will lead us to reason. And a new day will dawn for those who stand long and the forests will echo with laughter.” 

Surely, somebody up there was laughing. Whoever God was, he sure had a twisted sense of humor.

-

11:57 P.M. 

“We need to get inside.” Dean announced, grabbing the tin and putting it in his jacket pocket. “It’ll be easier to corner the bitch so we can kill it.” 

You both climbed down into the back yard. Sam and Cas were waiting, already filled in on the plan. Neither were overly confident, but if there was a chance, they were willing to try. 

“You ready?” Sam asked. You gulped and gave the three of them a solemn nod. Each man filed inside, weapons at the ready. As soon as Dean was in, you slid the glass door shut, jamming a metal bar in between the door and the wall. 

“Y/N!” Dean yelled, trying to force it open. “Y/N, what are you doing?” The door wouldn’t budge. “Let me out!”

You put your hand against the glass, palm splayed out where Dean’s fist pounded. You gave him a small, sad smile. 

“It’s okay.” You mouthed. His hand flattened against yours. “It’s going to be okay.” You exchanged a glance with Sam and he gave you a wordless promise. He would make sure his brother would get through this. You locked your eyes with Dean’s. You never got tired of those emerald irises. Knowing that you put the life back in those perfect green eyes would give you enough courage to face what came next. 

You closed your eyes, feeling a lone tear slide down your cheek. 

12:00 A.M.

This time, the clock’s chiming didn’t make you jump. The howl did. Both Sam and Dean were desperately trying to get the door open, but Cas knew that this was what you wanted. He turned away. 

“Damn it, Y/N! Open the door!” Dean shouted again, hitting the glass as hard as he could. You spoke just loud enough for them to hear you. 

“I love you.” You opened your eyes only to find the heartbreak in his. “I love all of you.” You cried out as a set of claws dug deeply into your calf, yanking you backwards onto the concrete. 

“No!” Dean screamed. He pulled so hard that the handle of the door snapped off. Sam was frozen now, neither brother able to tear their eyes away. 

You tried to hold back your screams, but it was useless. The hellhound flipped you onto your back, claws ripping through your shoulder like paper. Your shrieks were loud enough to fill the kitchen. 

“Baby, please.” Dean cried, his efforts in trying to break the glass merely giving him bruises. He was forced to watch the invisible beast create claw marks along your arms and chest. He felt every tear as if it were happening to him all over again. A pool of blood started to pour out beneath you.

Your most agonizing scream came when you felt the dog’s jaws clamp around your side. You looked up at the men above you. Dean’s face was stained with tears, as was his brother’s. They both looked so anguished, so shattered. So you remembered last night. You remembered their laughing faces and off-key singing. You remembered Sam’s comforting embrace and his knowing smile. You remembered the taste of Dean’s lips and the feeling of his body tangled with yours. You remembered their eyes in the sunset, sparkling and alive. And you smiled. Your boys.

“Y/N! No!” Dean screamed in horror as a chunk of your flesh was violently torn away. You stopped moving. “Y/N!” The last toll of the clock echoed throughout the entire house and the old Grandfather clock stopped ticking. 

Sam pushed his brother to the side and fired his gun at the glass until it shattered. Dean bolted through, not caring if he got cut. The hound was gone, leaving only carnage in its wake. He fell to his knees. 

“Y/N?” His voice was quiet now, hoarse from screaming. Your eyes stared blankly up at the stars, blood splattered across your face. He cradled your head in his hand. “Don’t do this to be, baby. Don’t do this to me.” He pulled you into his lap. “Come on sweetheart, don’t make me lose you too. Please.”

Sam’s chest tightened, watching his brother break down. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw Dean cry this hard. Cas had vanished, so it was just the two of them now. After a moment, Sam let out a heavy sigh. 

“Why don’t you head out the car? I’ll clean up.” 

“No.” Dean growled, head jerking up to look at him. “I have to do this.” Dean straightened and he scooped your body up into his arms. Blood rushed down his clothes like rain, seeping through to his skin. It would stain him for the rest of his life. He pressed a kiss to your forehead one last time and gently closed your eyes. 

And she’s buying a stairway to Heaven. 

-

Tuesday 8:33 A.M.

The ride back to the bunker was silent. Even when they got back, Sam knew better than to say anything. Dean went to take a shower, shoving the small tin to the back of his drawer. Sam poured himself a drink. He looked out on an empty library and lifted his glass, as if he were toasting you. 

Dean turned the water to a scalding temperature, feeling it burn as it rinsed off the sticky crimson liquid that covered his chest and arms. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your smile going blank as the hellhound tore away your skin. And all he could hear was that stupid clock. Before he even realized it, his hand punched the tiled wall over and over again until it cracked, his knuckles splitting open and oozing blood. He didn’t even feel it. He didn’t feel anything. 

-

It was dark, but you could still see the blade hanging above you, glistening menacingly. Spiked restraints pierced your wrists, holding you down on the table. 

“Sam? Cas? Anybody!” You cried. There was no hiding the terror in your voice. The saw screeched to life and slowly lowered down towards you. “Help me! Somebody please!” You struggled, only making the spikes dig further into your skin. There was no escaping this. Your screams filled the darkness. ���Dean!”

-

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascal; @childhood-imagination;  @mylovegoesto; @yellowbadgergirl; @itmejado

Supernatural: @desimarie12; @deandreamernp; @vicmc624​; @halesandy​ @livshaes​;  @d-whinchestergirl87​;  @mrspeacem1nusone​

The Deal Series: @writeroutoftime

#gore warning #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester #castiel #supernatural imagines #winchester takeover #october #jensen ackles #Jared Padalecki #to be continued?

[franniebanana]

CQL Rewatch - Episode 3

I just love their outfits here, and since I didn’t comment on that in the last episode, I wanted to say it here. I love the whole color palette they used for Lotus Pier. The donghua goes heavy on the purple and black, but I really love how they incorporate lavender and teal and other blues. It’s just very pretty and soft and relaxing. Such a nice place. I keep having a debate with myself about where I’d rather live. I think I’d be more comfortable in the Cloud Recesses, but I’d never be able to deal with all those rules!

Ah, yes, everyone’s favorite peacock. He played this part so perfectly: just this pillar of grace and poise, except when he’s around Jiang Yanli, and he just becomes butter hahaha. I like his son a lot better than him, but he and Wei Wuxian have some great scenes together, and it’s fun to see him grow alongside everyone else. He’s not just a mindless clan member who does everything he’s supposed to. He’ll stand up and fight for justice too.

It’s easy to forget (myself included in this) that Jiang Yanli is the oldest of the three of them, especially in this show. She’s so much smaller, so soft-spoken; she isn’t going to be the next leader, because that’s Jiang Cheng, being the male heir. But this is one of those scenes where she really is the big sister. Wei Wuxian is fighting with her fiancé’s retinue, Jiang Cheng is just trying to stay out of it and be polite, so she has to step in and put an end to it. I love when Jiang Yanli gets some screen time and lines, and isn’t serving soup. Don’t get me wrong—I like seeing her take care of them, but it’s more mothering than being a big sister. I think the moments when she’s standing up for her brothers and for herself are really special. You can’t blame Jiang Cheng or Wei Wuxian for loving their shijie so much.

Gotta love Wei Wuxian taking every opportunity to throw some shade at Jin Zixuan. I love all of it, and I eat it up—I am the target audience for snarky Wei Wuxian. And at this point, Jin Zixuan just ignores him—good on him. He keeps that up for all of a few days.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO

YOU FORGOT THE INVITATION!

Sorry, but the first time I watched this, I wondered why there was this big close-up of something with “Lan Clan of Gusu” written on it. I’m a dummy, okay?

Omg they translated ge-ge as “buddy.”

Okay, but here we go! Shut out of the Cloud Recesses. Also, where did they change? I kept thinking they changed at the tavern, but when they left, they were wearing their same Jiang Clan clothes. So, somewhere along the way, they put on their pretty white robes. I’ve got nothing else to say here, because we’re about to see another great entrance from Lan Wangji.

I love how his entrance is accompanied by the guqin. His presence is so ethereal, so otherworldly, yet he’s so grounded as a character. He turns everyone’s heads, including Wei Wuxian’s. I love that Wang Yibo is in reality shorter than Xiao Zhan, so they gave him platform boots to make them more even. But the height and stature gives the relationship a whole different dynamic.

Anyone who knows me knows I love my yaoi/BL. I could go on and on about my favorites, but I won’t do that here. There’s one thing I don’t like about it, and it’s that you can always tell who the top and bottom is just by how they look (sometimes artists subvert this, which I love!). The donghua for MDZS does this (I haven’t read the manhua, but I have seen some screenshots, and I think it also does)—Lan Wangji is so much bigger than Wei Wuxian. And while it’s aesthetically pleasing, it just bugs me, okay? I like the idea of Wangxian being roughly the same size and height—I don’t really know why, I just do. Also I definitely headcanon them both as switches at this point.

I don’t think Lan Wangji would have given Wei Wuxian the time of day if he hadn’t heard this. He’s already impressed that Wei Wuxian picked up on the weird stuff/wicked sorcery going on—he’s made a mental note of him. I’m sure he’s a little disappointed that Wei Wuxian immediately gets on his nerves, but he still pauses before leaving.

Lan Wangji is never going to be a fast friend—he’s not going to be anyone’s best friend right away. You need to gain his trust and that does not happen overnight. Though the setting is anything but realistic, their relationship and the steps it goes through are incredibly realistic. They grow together—they grow on each other (it’s not as if Wei Wuxian really cares about Lan Wangji at first either—think of how many times he calls him a fuddy-duddy. I think his main goal for quite some time is to get on Lan Wangji’s nerves and tease him. Wei Wuxian is used to charming his way in and out of things, but he can’t do that with Lan Wangji).

Yibo’s piercings! That’s it. That’s why I took this screenshot. But, weirdly, I always look at stuff like that.

He has such a swagger here, going up the steps, but I think it’s really just Xiao Zhan trying to climb the stairs without tripping on his costume. XD

It’s funny how surprised Wei Wuxian is to have the silencing spell used on him, even though he had been put under it earlier that day. Frankly, I don’t blame Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian hit him with a bit of a sucker punch there, implying that the girls only liked him for how he looks and that they’d be disappointed by his demeanor.

It’s such a popular trope (enemies to lovers), but I don’t think that makes it inherently bad or less effective as a storytelling device. On the contrary, when done well, it can make or break a story. As I said earlier, their relationship is very realistic, yet has enough fiction to make it fun. I watch these early scenes with a big old grin on my face, and I’ve seen this one probably around four times now, maybe more (I keep watching the Special Edition for all that wangxian goodness).

Okay, let’s watch as Wei Wuxian digs his hole deeper and deeper. The look on Lan Qiren’s face this entire time is priceless. Like, who is this miscreant who just barged in here, telling me how he is breaking all the rules and expecting me to feel bad for him? Meanwhile, Lan Xichen, with a smile: I won’t blame you for breaking the rules, but let my brother who hates you decided your punishment, okay? Thanks!

Peak comedy before it gets all serious again.

She’s so gorgeous!

But I’ll be frank with you all, I don’t like that they expanded Wen Qing’s role in this way. She was one of my favorites in the book, but shoehorning her and Wen Ning into the Cloud Recesses kind of drives me nuts. And then the stuff with Jiang Cheng, while kind of cute, just doesn’t really hit right with me, and I don’t think it was executed well at all after a certain point—but I’ll babble about that when the time comes. So, while I appreciate expanding female roles, I didn’t really care for this bit in the Cloud Recesses. I would have been fine with them adding scenes of what she was up to with the Wen Clan—that would have been really cool, actually, because we don’t get to see much of anything other than the Nightless City. And maybe I’m biased because I quite enjoyed the archery contest stuff in the book that they kind of piecemealed in the show.

It sounds like I’m just whining about this show, but I actually really enjoy it.

I like this moment between the twin jades. We don’t get a ton of these and this one is particularly quiet and peaceful. The contrast between them and Jiang Cheng/Wei Wuxian is so stark—the twin jades are so formal and a little stiff, while the twin prides are off the wall, hitting and teasing each other—but this doesn’t make either one less caring than the other. What’s obvious from this scene is how much both of them care about each other: Lan Wangji wants to do what he can to help, because he knows how much pressure is on Xichen, and Xichen is just worried about his younger brother. Even though you don’t find this out until later, you can tell that the two boys had to grow up very fast. Neither one had much of a childhood, and I think Lan Xichen does take on a bit of a father role to Lan Wangji as well.

Other episodes: 1 | 2 |

#cql rewatch #lan wangji #wei wuxian #wangxian #lan xichen #jiang cheng #jiang yanli #jin zixuan #wen qing #cql #the untamed #mdzs #mo dao zu shi

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

First Line Game

I was tagged by dear @heartoferebor! Thank you! Rules: list the first lines of the last ten stories you published. Look to see any patterns you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any. Then tag some friends.

I haven't actually published that many since I started writing fic again so we're going all the way back to 2018 lmao.

"It’s early spring and the caravan is passing through Verden; wagons balancing on the knifes edge precipice of the cliffs, tottering every now and again as though to keel over into the frothing sea." X

"Eskel wakes screaming, clutching the ruined side of his face." X

"The glow of falselight had faded hours ago, leaving the kitchen of the seventh-floor apartment of the Broken Tower in a comfortable part-shadow." X

"Geralt hasn't been back to Kaer Morhen in years, not since Vesemir's death, since the Wild Hunt came through and laid waste to everything he’d ever held close to him." X

"This wasn’t the fucking plan this was never the fucking plan." X

"It’s the sound of music that brings him back to consciousness; the Stones echoing from the studio below through the hole in the floor."X

"Coën had taken the bouncer gig at The Wolf’s Den because it was supposed to be easy, something he could do to pay rent while devoting most of his brainpower to studying for the LSAT." X

"Down in the orchard, the apple trees are blooming - white blossoms, like snow, standing out against the new leaves, their green so bright he can barely look at them so sensitive are his new eyes." X

"Boris does not like Paris." X

"Each one of them deals with what happened in different ways, by changing slightly, personalities pivoting a little to the left." X

I don't know that I see any trends beyond my hackneyed overuse of run-on sentences lmao. I have a horrible reliance on atmosphere and I like to overdescribe the scenery before even getting to the barest beginnings of the action and I'm sure it drives readers absolutely nuts. (This has reminded me about how much I want to write a sequel to that Coën/Lambert/Aiden club AU fic)

I don't know any moots who write fic that weren't already tagged in this reblog chain but please please do this if you like. I'm always curious about people's writing styles. The lack of a tag is based on ignorance not spite I promise! Please forgive me.

[digitalstowaway]

Yes to the mia & miles AU sick fic pLease 🥺

This was longer than I thought it was going to be I'm Sorry. here's the og post that this fic is about. Sometimes...... Diego cares about Miles enough to not let him die. Sorry if you're emetophobic!!

--

Diego didn’t hate Miles. Hate was a strong word, his mother always told him. And once Diego realized that Miles was an awkward, tired kid who had probably been abused for over ten years, he couldn’t bring himself to actually hate him. He felt bad for him. He could understand why Mia was falling for him more and more, taking extra steps to make sure he was safe and just okay.

And when Miles was dreadfully ill, Diego supposed that it wouldn’t hurt to go so far as to show him a little kindness.

He knocked on the bathroom door. “Kid, can I come in?”

“Yes.”

Diego had been the one to volunteer to follow Miles to the bathroom after the poor kid took off from the kitchen, the salad Lana made him half-eaten. He had looked over the plate and asked Lana if she had put pine nuts in it. And then asked, with a grimace, if she knew that Miles was allergic to pine nuts.

She had stood there, frozen and spluttering, and while Mia comforted her, telling her she couldn’t have known, Diego rushed after Miles to check to see if his windpipe had closed up yet.

But Miles was just over the toilet, heaving and sweating. His neck was blotchy with painful-looking hives that spread up towards his face.

“Your won’t stop breathing on us, will you?” Diego asked.

Miles shook his head.

It was a rare occasion that Diego actually wanted to help the kid. He couldn’t imagine the pain he was in nor the embarrassment he felt while being sick in Lana’s home.

He helped Miles out of his jacket and then his waistcoat and tie. For some reason, Miles allowed it. Maybe the kid was feeling so poorly that he was glad that someone was around to undress him. Maybe he knew he was in for a long battle and didn’t have the energy to put up any arguments with Diego.

“Is this all that’s going to happen?” Diego asked. “Because if we need to take you to a hospital, we should know now.”

“I’ll be fine. I can go home in a moment—”

“I don’t think that’s such a great idea. Lana probably won’t let you leave.” Diego undid the top buttons of Miles’ shirt, revealing that the hives were spread across his chest. “She has to finish you off. Poisoning you wasn’t enough to get the job done.”

“It’s not funny!” Lana’s voice from the other side of the door cried.

“Is she out there?” Miles asked, curling over the toilet again.

“Seems so.”

Diego had only met Lana a handful of times, but it was enough to know that she adored Miles. She coddled him, making him meals and defending him against Diego’s jabs. It was obnoxious to see Miles peek behind her back and smile as she told Diego to find someone “his own size” to pick on.

But Diego had to admit that Lana was good for him. For as many times as she scolded Diego, she reminded Miles to be mannerly and polite. And he was slowly behaving better when she wasn’t around. He didn’t have so many snarky comments or dirty glares to toss around. They were replaced with quiet “please” and “thank yous.”

He was physically changing as well. His hollow cheeks were filling out. He wasn’t so pale and distant-looking all the time, showing that Lana’s meals were letting him catch up from whatever neglect his body had been through.

There was another knock on the door. Miles wrapped an arm around his stomach, moaning.

“Miles?” Lana cracked open the door just wide enough to poke her head through. “I’ll let you get back to your privacy in a second, but take the spare bed when you’re feeling better, okay? You can stay here for the night.”

Miles responded with a whimper. Diego nodded on his behalf.

“I’ll make sure he gets there.”

Lana’s head disappeared. Her arm followed with a small stack of towels she laid on the sink.

“Miles?” she said, her face reappearing. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be,” Miles choked out.

“I should have known you were allergic to pine nuts.”

“There was no way for you to have known.” His face scrunched up. He bared his teeth. “Get out. Please.”

“Let me know if you need anything. I’m really sorry!”

Miles retched. The door closed.

Diego didn’t know what to do. Miles looked to be in pain, his body spasming and tensing up. Anything Diego could think about giving him—antihistamines, tea—would surely be brought back up in a matter of seconds.

Diego looked away from the yellow bile Miles spit up and turned to the towels Lana had laid out. There was an impressive variety. A few small clothes and various sizes of hand towels. Diego grabbed a smaller washcloth and wet it in cold water.

Miles shook on the floor. He whimpered again. It was odd to see the kid so vulnerable.

“When I said get out,” he said through labored breaths, “I meant you, too.”

“Too bad, brat. You’re stuck with me. I know you probably really want to be alone right now, and I can’t blame you, but I think someone should stay here. So it’s either me, Lana, or Mia. And Mia is a sympathy puker.”

“And Lana would probably cry.”

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll sit here in silence if you let me make sure you’re not going to keel over.”

Miles was retching again, and Diego felt terrible as he saw tears begin to collect with the sweat on his face. Miles sounded like he was choking, fighting against what his body wished to do.

“Just bring it up,” Diego said.

He laid the cloth on the back of Miles’ neck and then moved it to his forehead. Miles jerked. A little more yellow bile came up. And he fell against Diego’s chest, face worryingly pale where the hives hadn’t taken hold.

“Miles?”

Diego grabbed his shoulder, making sure he didn’t slide head-first into porcelain. He pressed the cloth to Miles’ cheek. And for once, Miles actually looked like the kid he was. He looked small and fragile, and Diego worried that he would break if he held him too tight.

“Why are you being kind to me?” Miles asked.

“Because if I leave you to die on this bathroom floor, Mia will be upset with me.”

“I won’t die.”

“I don’t know. You look halfway there.” Diego ran the cloth to Miles’ neck. “Has this happened before?”

“Obviously. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know I’m allergic.”

“I mean recently.”

Miles sighed. He pushed himself up and dropped his head over the toilet again. Diego steadied him.

“Not since I was a teenager,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, because that was so long ago.”

“A young teenager.”

Diego tried imagining Miles even younger than he was. He had trouble taking a few inches off his height (and Miles was already not that tall) and a little sharpness from his jaw. And where was Miles? With his mentor/adoptive father—or whatever fucked up relationship they had.

He had imagined, judging from the pictures Diego saw when he was being nosy, that Manfred von Karma lived in a gothic mansion with stone walls and long corridors lined with candles. He couldn’t imagine anyone there with anymore fondness for Miles than Diego had for him. No Lanas or Mias.

Miles cried out, his hand grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Diego didn’t say anything but laid his hand on his back.

—

It was hours later, after alternating between dozing and retching, when Miles was ready to pull himself off the bathroom floor. Diego hovered and when Miles’ face turned a dramatic shade of white, he quickly threw Miles over his shoulder.

“Put me down!”

There were weak punches at his back. Diego ignored them as he carried Miles to the guest room.

“This is indecent!”

“Calm down. You wouldn’t have made it here by yourself.”

Diego threw him on the bed. He pulled Miles’ collar open, looking at his chest. The blotchiness had died down. It didn’t look so intense. The angry welts were gone, replaced with a splotchy rash that looked like clouds.

Miles didn’t put up any more of a fight. He crawled to the top of the bed and laid down. His brow was still furrowed in pain—or maybe only discomfort at that point. He closed his eyes, curling into himself.

“Want me to tuck you in?” Diego asked.

“Please don’t touch me.”

“I think I’ve touched you enough today to last us the rest of our lives.”

Diego’s shirt was wet from the cold towels he laid on Miles and the sweat the boy had rubbed onto him whenever he swooned. He felt a touch gross, but he could only imagine how much worse Miles felt. Diego hoped for his sake that he would be well enough to drive himself home by the morning to shower and change into fresh clothes he could relax in.

Miles fell asleep within minutes. His face finally relaxed. His body was no longer so tense. And Diego was able to collapse into the stuffed chair in the corner of the room. He liked the kid the best when he was quiet.

And resting.

Maybe Diego had earned himself immunity from biting insults. Or at least a break.

Lana poked her head inside the room. “I heard you two moving around,” she whispered. “Is he sleeping?”

Diego nodded. “I think he’s over it.”

“Good.” She stepped into the room. She carried a glass of water. “I can look after him tonight if you and Mia want to head home.”

Home sounded nice no matter if it was his or Mia’s apartment they ended up crashing at that night. But he was still worried about leaving the kid.

Lana sat at Miles’ side. She brushed his hair back from his face and stroked his brow, gently calling his name. He woke slowly, his swollen eyes not wanting to open.

“You need to drink a little water. Sit up for me.”

He did so the best as he could. Diego was shocked to see him allow Lana to support his head and help him hold the glass to his lips. He fell right back asleep with Lana pulling a quilt over him.

“How do you do that?” Diego asked.

“Hmm?”

“Get him to act like that.”

“It’s all about getting him to trust you.” Lana stroked his hair one last time. “Go home. I’ll make sure he’s alright. This is my fault, anyway.”

Diego stood and stretched. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. If he had any self-preservation skills, he would have told the person who cooks for him every week that he’s seriously allergic to pine nuts.”

Lana smiled. “Maybe.”

Diego left the room and found Mia waiting for him, ready to leave. She asked how Miles was and offered to drive them back to her apartment for drinks. She was sure that he needed it after being locked in a room with Miles. How they both came out alive was beyond her, she said.

Diego touched the wet patch on his shirt where Miles’ head repeatedly fell onto his chest and said nothing.

#tw emetophobia #ace attorney #mia & miles au #diego caaaaaares

[smol-and-grumpy]

Light My Fire - CH05

Pairing: CEO!Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: She always thought her boss was an ill-tempered man, but when he presents her with a proposition she can’t quite deny, she gets to know him better. It’s not bad, right? Because all she has to do is being fake married to him for six months, sounds do-able, right? Right.

Warnings: Angst, tension, sexual frustrations, NSFW

WC: 3861

Please share your thoughts with me, I’d love to hear your feedback.

Beta’d by @deanwanddamons​​​​ <3

SERIES MATSTERLIST

Y/N wakes up late the next day. It’s probably because she tossed and turned in her bed for quite a long time. She couldn’t sleep, her mind constantly on Dean, thinking of that damn fucking kiss and his gestures of affection. Even though it was the last thing she wanted to think about. After about two hours of lying awake, she decided to do something about her sexual frustrations. 

Of course she had thought about going over to his room but that would mean that she might have to cross a line she doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be crossing. Although she’d think that Dean probably wouldn’t mind? She just doesn’t know? He’s so hard to read. Either that or she’s too oblivious to notice these kinds of things. 

So, she lay there in the dark rubbing herself, and however much she wanted to come, it didn’t work, and that frustrated her even more. She thinks she fell asleep angrily, if that’s even possible.

She stretches in bed, pulls the cover over her head again and tries to fall asleep one more time. There’s still that stupid tingling sensation between her thighs and it gets more unbearable the longer she’s awake. That’s just fucking great. 

When it becomes too unbearable to stay in bed much longer, she gets up and reaches to the night stand for her phone. As soon as the lock screen lights up, she sees a text from Jack. 

 J: [picture]

 She thumbs the message open to look at the picture, it’s one of her and Dean from last night. They really do look like a happy couple. 

 J: Do you wanna tell me what’s that all about? When did you get married and why didn’t you tell me?

 Oh, no. She totally forgot about the pictures that hit the internet this morning. Well, she thought about it but it’s not like Dean’s an A-list celebrity so she never really thought that Jack’s going to find out about it. Apparently, the joke’s on her.

 Y/N: I’ll explain everything to you soon, alright? Just trust me. 

 She doesn’t wait for a reply, she needs coffee in her system first if Jack should answer, but knowing him, he probably won’t. He’ll give her the silent treatment for at least two days. She walks out into the living area in only her sleep shirt because she’s getting bolder around here, and also mainly because she knows that Dean’s already out at work anyway.

Today, she thinks that she’s going to need to hit the gym. Needs to somehow get her frustrations out, and then she’ll let the massage comforter knead the tension out of her. Maybe then she’ll be able to sleep again. She might take an afternoon nap after, for good measure.

Walking into the kitchen, the familiar smell of cologne and coffee greets her and there’s another sticky note on the coffee machine.

I hope you slept well. Thank you for coming along last night. I meant it when I said that I had fun. Don’t overthink the thing with Amara, okay? I want you to relax today. I’ll see you this evening. — D

She shouldn’t be smiling. Why is she smiling? 

Ugh, Dean.

Ugh.

Yeah, she definitely needs to hit the gym.

 *

 When she’s changed into her gym gear, her phone pings with a message.

 G: You need anything? What are you up to? Gabe

 She frowns a little. Gabe? Why is he texting her? She doesn’t have time to think so she quickly types in a reply.

 Y/N: No, thank you. About to hit the gym now.

 Crouching down, she ties her shoes and searches for her headphones. It takes her an awfully long time to find them, as she couldn’t for the love of her remember where she put it. By the time she finds it, she’s already sweating bullets.

She runs to the front door and when she opens it, she bumps right into Gabe. Something falls out of his hand from the impact and drops onto the floor. Her eyes go from Gabe to the thing.

“Oh, I thought you were out, sorry.” He gets back on his feet, quickly picks up the package from the floor and hides it behind his back.

If he thinks that she didn’t see it, he better think again. Because it’s a fairly large packet of condoms (fucking condoms!) and she couldn’t have missed that if she tried.

“Who are they for?” She asks, and feels something squeezing at her heart. Something that makes her chest hurt.

“For me,” Gabe answers quickly.

Y/N stares him down, raises her eyebrow. She could ask him if they were for him, what he’s doing with them here. Or why he comes in when he thinks that she’s out. She could voice all of her thoughts but instead, she gave him a silent glare, and crossed her arms over her chest.

Gabe sighs and rolls his eyes before he speaks, “Fine, the boss said to come in when you’re out and drop it in his room.”

So it is for Dean! Just like she thought it would be.

“You can take it back,” 

“But—”

“He doesn’t need them.” She hisses, and cuts Gabe’s sentence short.

“Fine. Okay, but you are going to explain to him why I couldn’t drop them off.”

“Gabe, just go.” She does her best to stay calm but on the inside, she’s raging.

She watches Gabe lower his head and retreat. After she’s sure that Gabe’s gone, she sends Dean a text because she doesn’t know his schedule and doesn’t want to interrupt one of his meetings. Plus, it’s easier to do it by text because right now, she doesn’t even want to talk to him at all.

 Y/N: CONDOMS! Condoms, Dean? Really? We had a fucking deal. I’m out!

 Gym is cancelled. She needs to get out of here fast and storms back into the apartment and hurries to her room. She takes out her suitcases and starts to pack. Her phone chimes a couple of times but she ignores it. 

One full suitcase later, she hears him. 

Fuck!

She was kind of hoping that he’d be in a meeting and couldn’t get out of it. Or maybe, in hindsight, she should have sent the text after she left but she was too fucking mad to think straight.

The front door slams so loud, it makes her jump, and his dress shoes click away on the marble flooring. They come closer and there’s nowhere for her to hide but in this room. 

“Y/N!” There’s a knock, “Open up!”

“No!”

“Jesus, you know that I could just kick the door in, right? So open up now or I will.”

Ugh. Would Dean really kick the door in just to talk with her? She decides not to test that theory. Besides, what could go wrong, right? She’s still mad and running away from problems won’t make it go away. She’d tried that one, but it didn't work.

She walks to the door and opens up to a distressed Dean. His tie’s a little loose, his hair ruffled up and he’s sweating. She can see the little droplets by his hairline. 

“What the fuck happend?” He growls at her, it’s low and deep and it should maybe scare her but she’s unfazed. Had seen him like this more time than she can count.

“You ask me what happened? Gabe brought you a pack of condoms, Dean! That’s what happened! Condoms! A fucking big pack, too!” 

Y/N throws her hands in the air, her throat makes a frustrating sound. And then she tries to breath to calm herself while Dean’s still staring at her, one fucking eyebrow raised. 

She ignores him and goes on, “Fucking condoms! When we both agreed that we’ll stay abstinent and won’t flirt or fuck anyone else in the six months so as to not jeopardize this whole fucking fake marriage!”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean breathes out, threads his hand through his hair, “That’s what you’re upset about?” 

He talks like it’s no fucking big deal! It makes her even more mad. 

“Of course I’m fucking upset! I’m pissed!” She spits out her words, “You let him bring you condoms so you can fuck around? How’s that fucking fair to me? All eyes are on me, Dean! If I slip, I’ll take you down with me, but if you sleep around, that’s o-fucking-kay? You’re a fucking hypocrite!” She notices  that he steps in some more but there’s room by the door so storms past him, knows that one of her books is still in the living room and she wants to grab that now because she can’t stand there and look at him one minute longer.

“Y/N, calm down, let me explain,” He talks in a calmer voice, and follows her. Damn his fucking long legs because he catches up to her and grabs her arm, makes her turn and crowds her against the wall, one hand placed right next to her head and one hand on her hips, holding her there, “Please.”

He wants to explain? Yeah, sure. She’s looking up at him, challenges him, a frown etched deep in her face, “Explain? What is there to fucking expla—”

She can’t finish her sentence because Dean attacks her mouth and kisses her roughly to shut her up. And why is she giving in? She shouldn’t be giving in but fuck, if his kisses doesn’t make her weak in the knees. 

He leaves his forehead on hers when he parts, pecks her lips once more when he sees that all the fight has left her body. Dean sighs before he talks, his voice is deep, gravelly, “Goddamnit, Y/N, the condoms were for us, alright?”

What?

“For us?” She frowns and Dean chuckles, his breath hot against her face. Coffee and chewing gum. He’s a notorious gum chewer. It sometimes drives her nuts because she has to make sure that there is gum everywhere in the office should he need one.

“Yeah, I was to make you a proposition. If we’re not allowed to date and see other people, I was gonna ask you if you’d be game if we—” He points his index finger between the two of them, “—you know, enjoy each other. No strings attached other than the fake marriage,”

“You want me?” She doesn’t believe him and he knows that she doesn’t. His mouth seals around hers again. It’s a little rougher, harder, his hot tongue sliding against hers, both of his hands are on her hips, fingers digging into her flesh. Before it can get too hot, he breaks it off and she whimpers against his mouth, making him chuckle.

“You just don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“My god, Y/N! You turn me on so fucking much, you have no fucking idea.” His face changes. His eyes are a little darker, his voice a little deeper, “The first night with you? I was so hard I jerked myself off in the showers.”

Her mouth opens to form an ‘o’, “‘S that why you didn’t wanna get into the tub with me?”

He lets out a breath, “Yeah, I didn’t think I could have hidden my boner and it was for your own safety because I might have just attacked you.”

She grins.

Dean chuckles nervously, it’s rare that he’s nervous, “And last night? Last night was super hard because I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I thought about you and how you tasted. How you’re just laying in the next room. I had to take another long shower, thought of you when I did it.”

Y/N has to chuckle at the image and it makes her light headed. He thought of her? 

“So,” Dean says, pecks her lips again, “What do you say? You game? While you’re here we could have some fun?”

Y/N lets his words sink in. 

While she’s here they could have some fun. Yeah, they could. She’s clearly attracted to him, and he might be to her either. They’re adults, right? Sex works without feelings, you don’t have to love someone to have great sex, right? 

She stands on her tiptoes, hooks her arms around his necks and looks at him. He has a frown on his face, and he looks at her expectantly. 

And when she nods, Dean smiles, crashes his mouth on hers, kisses her wantonly, teeth biting down on her bottom lips, making her yelp up into his mouth. 

Dean pins her to the wall, presses his body closer, his hand goes from her hips to behind her back to knead at her ass and she arches her back, giving him better access. She can feel that he’s hard right now.

“Jesus, fuck—,” Dean pants, “I’m so hard I could pound nails.” He thrusts his hips, and it gives her just the right friction. 

Y/N giggles against his lips and Dean shuts her up with a bruising kiss. His hands go back to her hips, turns her around roughly and she braces her hand on the walls to soften the impact. His mouth kisses her cheeks, goes down her jawline and nibbles at her throat and she arches her back, drives her ass into his bulge while his fingers dig into the seam of her yoga pants at her ass, tearing the fabric in two.

“Dean!”

“I’ll buy you new ones,” His lips suck at her pulse point, tongue wet and hot on her skin, tears some more so that her pants are hanging down her legs, only now held together by the elastic band around her waist.

His long fingers move her string aside, strokes along the crack of her ass to the front, groans when he feels that she’s soaked there. 

“Fuck,” She curses and arches her back some more. It feels so good to have someone else touching her there other than herself. 

Dean groans when he feels that she’s soaked, and he whispers into her neck, “Can— can I fuck you? I don’t think I can sit through a meeting knowing that you’re going to be here. All ready and fucking wet for me.”

God, his words turn her on so much.

“Ye-ah,” Her breathing hitches, because he slips in a finger and he groans out some more at that.

Dean sucks in her skin on her neck, lets it go with a huff of breath and a grin and pulls his finger out. He has to chuckle when he hears her whimper at the loss. He takes a step further away and she hears the metal of his belt buckle. She stays pinned there, doesn’t dare to move but she wriggles her ass and it might make her look needy, which she really is. 

She hears a hiss when Dean frees his cock, can hear him spit into his hands and he’s probably working his own dick and god, she wants to see. 

“Look at you, fuck—” He comes closer, his hand squeezing her ass, fingers spanning wide. He spanks down on them too, making her yelp up and then he threads his fingers through her folds ones more before she hears shuffling behind her, and there’s his fucking tongue at her center, his nose buried deep into the crack of her ass. 

“Oh fuck,” She lets out a huff of breath and lowers her forehead to the cold wall. And she can’t help it, she has to arch her back, pushing her ass into Dean’s face and he hums, while his tongue twirls around her entrance. She hears the wet sound of Dean working his own dick while he licks into her.

“You taste so fucking good,” He mumbles, licks another broad stripe, slurps up her juice and she keens above him.

After a while he comes up again, kisses from her shoulder up her neck, his mouth is wet. His hard cock rests between her ass cheeks and he thrust his hips, can’t not stay still, cursing under his breath, “Fuck, I don’t have any condoms because you sent Gabe away.”

“Don’t care,” She manages to say and she’s fucking needy, she doesn’t care anymore because she feels his heavy and hard dick between her cheeks and she wants it inside.

“You sure?” 

“Fuck me already,” She drives her ass back, wriggles with it and Dean has to chuckle. 

He takes his dick into his hand, threads the tip through her slick and rests it at the entrance of her cunt. Dean lowers his head to her throat, sucks on a patch of skin before he pushes in. 

“Oh shit,” She moans out, throws her head back a little and Dean drives his teeth into her throat at the feeling and holds her skin between his teeth as he dives in further.

Dean goes in agonizing slow, but she needs that, needs time to adjust and to accommodate his girth. He's big, at least bigger than the dicks she had, which aren’t really many, but that’s not the point. He works his way inside and she stretches around him, helps him by moving her hips to make it easier. Dean groans out when he’s sheathed all the way inside.

“God you’re so deep,” She grits her teeth.

Dean’s panting hard and he kisses a way up her throat until he kisses the sensitive skin below her ear, he doesn’t move just yet. “You okay?” He whispers.

“Yeah,” She says, has to take another deep breath, “Yeah. Are you?”

“‘M trying not to come. You feel so good, fuck—” He hisses and then he composes himself, “When was the last time you done this?” His hip starts to move slowly, fucking up into her as deep as he can go and moves out far enough to just leave the tip in, only to repeat his movements. His hands are all over her, up below her shirt to knead at her tits through her sport bra, on her hips, around her waist, on her ass as he spanks her twice and spreads her wide to watch his dick going in and out of her cunt.

“God, I don’t know, maybe six months ago? Why?” She doesn’t really understand why they’re talking about this. She can’t really concentrate with his dick making her feel so fucking good.

“It feels like you’ve never done this before, you’re so goddamn tight, Jesus! Tightest little pussy,” His hands fists in her hair, yanks her head back so he can whisper into her ear, “You like my cock, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” She manages to say, his other hand is on her throat.

“Uh-huh?” Dean whispers, “Look at you taking my dick like a good girl,”

Fuck, he’s talks so dirty and it turns her on so much. She’s grinning, enjoys the feel of him pounding into her. Dean moves faster now, fucks the laugh right off her face.

After a while he lets go of her hair, pushes her against the wall once more and his mouth is always on her, nibbling, kissing and sucking the skin of her cheek, throat, the back of her neck. He fucks her deep, hard, she’s going to be sore, she just knows it. But it’s good. So fucking good because his cock curves at the tip, it rubs at her spot on the inside and she’s so fucking close. 

“Dean, I’m— I—” Shit, she can’t even say anything coherent. Her nails dig into the wall.

“Come for me, baby,” He nibbles down her jaw, sucks at her pulse point once more, one of his hands sneaks around the front, rubs along her clit.

Baby.

That does it. 

She shakes around him and her pussy squeezes and pushes at his dick so hard it slips right out, but Dean grabs it and pushes it right back in to fuck her through her orgasm.

“Good girl,” Dean pants, his thrust starts to falter right after, “Baby, where do you want me to come?” 

“Come in me,” She whispers, “I want you to come deep in me,”

“Jesus fuck,” He bites down her shoulder and holds his breath as he buries himself balls deep inside of her. He’s trembling, his hips jerk.

He breathes through his nose, his mouth still on skin, and he shudders. Dean sucks at the skin that bears his bite mark, soothes it with his warm tongue. “Jesus, I couldn’t even warn you. You saying things like that made me explode.”

She chuckles, her hand goes up to cup at his cheek, she can feel the prickle of his scruff.

“Shit,” Dean lowers his forehead to her shoulder, and she scratches at the short hair on the back of his head, “I have to go back to the meeting I kinda left in a hurry.”

“You left a meeting?” She frowns, “An important one?”

“Kinda? Donatello was about to present me with the numbers of the west coast. I gave them a thirty minutes break,” He chuckles, “I ran here. Couldn’t risk you leaving.”

“Jesus Christ, Dean, go back, now!”

“I am,” He growls and pulls himself upright. It also means that he’s slipping out of her and she squirms at the empty feeling, hates it already.

Dean’s cum drips to the floor and she turns around, still leaning against the wall because she doesn’t know if her legs will be able to hold her up. There’s cum splatters between them and she can see that while Dean tucks himself in, he’s looking on the floor, hesitant about cleaning it up and knowing that he’ll show up even later if he does it.

“Go! I got this!” She tells and Dean nods at her, zips up his pants. While he is securing his belt, she helps him right his tie. 

“I’ll smell like sex.” Dean smirks.

“Just run back, then you’ll smell of sweat.”

He snorts out a laugh, “Right, we’re good?”

“Yeah,”

He raises his eyebrows as if he doesn’t believe her, “You’re not leaving?”

“Nu-uh,” 

How can she? How is she supposed to leave now? Now that she knows that it was all for her?

Dean smiles, grabs her by the waist to pull her close, his fingers skim over the bite mark on her shoulder, “‘M sorry bout that,” 

Y/N shakes her head, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

He smiles and leaves a last lingering kiss, “I’ll see you later, okay?”

She nods and watches him leave. Her pussy’s still pulsing and she feels hot and wet, Dean’s cum is running down her legs when she walks to the kitchen, leaving a trail behind. 

Well, there goes her workout, instead she'll get on all fours and clean up the mess they made. 

After she cleans up, she sits in the hallway, right at the very spot that Dean just fucked her and leans her head back and closes her eyes. 

Oh my god, she just fucked her boss, or more like, he just fucked her! If that isn’t fucked up, she doesn’t know what is.

CH06

#light my fire #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #ceo!dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester fan fiction #nathalie writes

[hopelesshawks]

Physical Fatality Part 6- Ultimatum

18+ Hawks x fem, pro hero!reader

Summary: You’re a rising star in All Might’s agency. Hawks is the darling of Endeavor’s. By virtue of your job descriptions, the two of you are supposed to hate each other, or at the very least be cautiously neutral. For a long time that’s exactly what the two of you did. You stayed out of each other’s way and formed little opinion of the other. One fateful night at an HPSC gala changes all that. Based on the album Hopeless Fountain Kingdom by Halsey.

If you don’t want to see Physical Fatality content blacklist #hopelesspf

This story will have multiple NSFW parts so it is 18+ ONLY minors dni

Warnings for descriptions of unprotected vaginal, minor wing kink

Masterlist

Hawks knows what he’s been doing the past several weeks isn’t fair to you. In his defense, he was attempting to reconcile two different facts in his head. Fact 1: He is completely in love with you. Fact 2: He is completely loyal to Endeavor. Some days fact 1 wins out and he acts the perfect almost boyfriend. He helped you move into your apartment with Mina, he’d leave little gifts on your desk if he found something that made him think of you, and he kept things quiet so the reporters and your coworkers wouldn’t sniff out potential scandal. But some days fact 2 wins and he hesitates and grows distant. It’s not so much that he sees it as betraying Endeavor. He always has and always will think the Endeavor-All Might feud is dumb. But he knows that Endeavor will see it as a betrayal and like it or not Hawks owes a lot to Endeavor.

He sees the way you constantly try to anticipate how the press will interpret your every little move. Frankly, it looks like it makes an already exhausting job even more so. All you want to do is save people and instead you spend a nontrivial part of your day hyper analyzing your every move to anticipate the next day’s headlines. The other day you’d confessed to him that another bad headline could literally mean the end of your time at All Might’s agency and Hawks can’t even imagine that level of stress. And therein lies the problem. The only reason Hawks can’t imagine it is because the HPSC wiped all record of his name and Endeavor agreed to hire him once he completed training. So it’s not so much that being with you feels like a betrayal as it is that at some point he’ll have to tell Endeavor and when he does there will be hell to pay.

You know what Hawks has been doing the past several weeks isn’t fair to you. The hot and cold, on and off again is starting to give you whiplash. At first it was ignorable, after all you were busy settling into your new place so you spent quite a bit of your limited free time getting to know the woman you’d be living with from now on. Mina is a goddamn firecracker and you love her for it. Sure you’d seen some of her antics on Instagram before but you assumed it was all for the camera. Now as her roommate you’re realizing that’s just how Mina is. So for the first week Mina kept you busy even when Hawks would be in one of his weird distant moods. Then more time passed and it started to irk you. Was it or was it not his idea for this to not be a one time thing? So why was he being so distant suddenly.

Then the first fight happened. It was one of those days Hawks had been oddly distant. The task force had managed to narrow the possible groups responsible for the terrorist attack down to five and Hawks insisted each of you should take one to run surveillance on and the sixth person could coordinate. You thought it was a better use of resources to assign some of the lower ranked heroes to the surveillance and have the task force just coordinate and analyze what came through. “Don’t you think it’ll be a little suspicious if we suddenly aren’t doing our usual rounds because we're performing surveillance? Plus a lower ranked hero won't draw as much attention!" you argued. "This case is way too sensitive for us to be working off second hand information!" Hawks fired back. “I don’t know how you all do things over at Endeavor’s agency but our lower ranked heroes are competent enough to handle some simple surveillance,” you pointed out with a of roll your eyes. “What? Like Monoma?” Hawks shot back. “Maybe we should reel it in guys,” Midoriya tried to intervene but it was too late. “Yea like Monoma. What about it?” you replied, anger starting to build. “Just seems like a conflict of interest to me,” he shrugged. “A conflict of interest?” “That’s what I said isn’t it?” “Oh fuck off.” “So you’re not denying it.” “I am literally the first person to shit on Monoma in almost any situation but he’s a good hero.” “Interesting.” “Are you trying to die bird brain?” “OK! That’s enough!” Midoriya finally interrupted. “We’ll present both plans to Endeavor and All Might, let them decide,” Shoto had said simply. In the end they decided on Hawks’ plan.

The two of you probably should’ve talked out your almost relationship then. It was obvious to everyone else in the room that the argument was, fundamentally, not about task delegation, but you and Hawks were in denial and the angry sex afterwards made it easier to kiss, makeup, and just pretend it never happened. Except it did happen. And it happened again and again. On the good days you two are amazing, all sweet words and loving looks. On the bad days you’re a ticking time bomb. Every time you try to address it Hawks gives you absolutely nothing back. It’s driving you nuts. A fact you frequently make apparent to Bakugo and Midoriya. “Oh my god enough already,” Bakugo groans, interrupting your ongoing rant about the difficulties of being almost with Hawks. “Oh I’m sorry are my problems bothering you?” you ask sarcastically. “Look, we get it. He started this shit and now he won’t finish it. But if he won’t then why don’t you fucking finish it yourself,” Bakugo points out. “Kacchan has a point,” Midoriya adds in. “Not you too Izu,” you pout. “Don’t give me that look, I’m just saying maybe it is time to put your foot down,” he elaborates. “I’ve tried talking to him and he never tells me what’s going on with him,” you sigh. “Then stop talking and just hit him with an ultimatum,” Bakugo scoffs. “Yea! Tell him he has to make a decision now or you’re done,” Midoriya agrees. “What if he decides he doesn’t want this?” you ask. “Then it’s his loss,” Midoriya says. “Yea and we’ll kick his ass for it,” Bakugo adds. You really do have the best friends.

Hawks doesn’t know what to expect when you ask him to stick around after the task force meeting, but the thumbs up Midoriya gives you and the warning look Bakugo gives him don’t exactly bode well. Shoto exchanges a look with Hawks to confirm he’ll be fine and, when Hawks nods, Shoto and Tokoyami take their leave behind their former classmates. “So what’s up?” Hawks asks once the two of you are finally alone. “We need to talk about us,” you tell him and you can already feel him preparing to argue you down from having this conversation. “(Y/n)-“ he starts, but you’re not having it, not this time, so you cut him off. “I don’t want to fight right now. I know you’re always right. But even though you’ve been through the ups and downs with me, and even though I care a lot about you, you don’t seem to feel the same.” “That’s not true,” he refutes but even he knows his actions lately haven’t exactly conveyed how much he feels for you. “Really? Because we’ve been through it all, met each other’s moms, shared each other’s tragic backstories but lately, when it comes to talking about us, you can never spit it out for me. It’s like I’m trying to talk to a wall but you can never tear it down for me,” you insist. “That’s what happens when you ask personal questions while we’re still at work.” “What other choice do I have? You never pick up or call me.” “Maybe I just need more time.” “We’re running out of time.” “We don’t have to be! Let’s just talk this through later.” “No, we’ve done enough talking. It’s gotta be right now. I want you to hold me down forever, I do, but it’s your choice. Will you love me now or never?”

Hawks stares at you trying to process what you’ve said. He isn’t oblivious. He knows you’ve been getting frustrated with him being hot and cold. He knows the two of you getting involved was his idea in the first place. He knows he hasn’t been open with you about why he’s suddenly so hesitant. But he still hasn’t decided how to reconcile his love for you with his loyalty to Endeavor, so he still hesitates. “Can we please just figure this out later,” he pleads instead of answering as he reaches for you but you step back and out of his reach. “No. I’m drawing the line. I wasted two years of my life chasing something that wasn’t real with Monoma. I refuse to do it again. Especially when being with you literally puts my career at risk. So you don’t get to take any more time up. I need you to make your mind up. You’ve gotta decide Keigo. Now or never,” you insist.

It hits him then just how serious you are. There’s no talking his way out of this one. It really is now or never and something about the choice feels fateful. As if how he responds to you right now will determine his destiny. Almost his whole life he’s been looking for the kind of earth shattering, all consuming love you see in movies and tv shows. Something to fill the void his parents and the HPSC hollowed into him as a child. The stakes are so much higher with you than with the previous women he’s dated and he’s always been such a lousy gambler. Are you really the best bet? His mind is spinning with the daunting choice in front of him but then you sigh full of resignation and heartache and start to leave. It’s like someone mainlined ice water directly into his veins because suddenly the never is real. It’s real and terrifying and it’s about to be solidified by you walking out that door and he can’t. He absolutely can’t imagine his life without you in it right now so he lunges forward and grabs hold of your wrist. “Now! Fuck baby, I choose now,” he insists so desperately and when you turn to face him you both look absolutely cracked open.

The two of you collide together, mouths finding each other immediately. There is so much need and want and relief in that one kiss because for a horrifying moment both of you felt what it would be like to never have each other again. To never again feel that unique magnetism that constantly pulls you both together. Or worse, to feel it and yet be forever condemned to ignoring it. Keigo pulls you against him by your hips and his grip is hard enough you wonder if you’ll bruise. You make quick work of each other’s shirts and pants, desperate to be closer to each other. One of his hands reaches down to rub you through your panties and you’re already so wet for him. The little gasp you give at his feather light touches is absolutely intoxicating and he can’t believe that he almost lost this. Lost you. “I’m so sorry Love. So sorry I made you wait,” he whispers against your lips as he slips his fingers past the damp material of your underwear to stroke along your sex. “I need you Kei,” you whimper. “You have me.” “All of you. I need all of you.”

You don’t have to tell him twice.

The floor of the conference room perhaps isn’t the most ideal place to finally consummate your love but neither of you has the strength or desire to complain or postpone this moment. Scratchy carpet or the finest silk sheets, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that the two of you are together and finally, finally you can call him yours and he can call you his. So when he’s on top of you, underwear cast aside and nothing left to separate the two of you, you can’t even feel what’s beneath you. All you feel is his erection pressing at your entrance, his chest pressed to yours, and both of your hearts hammering in your chests as if anxious to beat against each other. You feel him in each and every one of your senses. As he presses into you, you both gasp at the sensation and just like that first time it’s so, so overwhelming. You clutch desperately at him to bring him impossibly closer and by the time he bottoms out inside you, you’re both on the verge of tears. “I love you,” he confesses and he thinks it may be the first time he’s ever meant it so utterly and completely. “I love you too,” you reply and for the first time in a long time the words don’t feel like ash on your tongue.

He starts moving his hips and it’s heaven. Each thrust into you feels like a solidification of the bond the two of you have formed over the past couple months since meeting. For the first time since Keigo had started getting distant it feels uncomplicated and you’re reminded again of why you’d thrown out all your rules for this man. This wild, beautiful man you could now call yours. You slide one hand along his back until you get to the base of one of his wings. You run your fingers through the soft plumage and delight in the shiver it draws out of him. One of his hands goes between the two of you to stimulate your sensitive clit and with each thrust you’re both seeing stars. His free hand finds yours to entangle your fingers together and he suspects that the tingling he feels throughout his whole body has less to do with the sex itself and more to do with you and the wondrous revelation that you want all of him, even the broken bits, just as much as he wants all of you. He ups the amount of pressure he’s applying to your clit and you tighten your grip on his feathers to match and soon you’re both hurtling over the edge into climax. You moan each other’s names into the limited space between you but there are multitudes contained therein.

You moan each other’s names but it sounds like I love you.

You moan each other’s names but it sounds like wedding bells and a family.

You moan each other’s names but it sounds like forever.

Author’s Note: This chapter feels short and I can’t tell if it’s because it’s actually short or I’m just paranoid about it being short because I made y’all wait a little bit for it. I’m happy with it or at least happy enough to post it but it’s not my favorite part that I’ve written for this series so far. I’ll try to make sure the next part is longer again to compensate for this one ❤️

Taglist [open]: @akkaso @cathy8taffy @eeppff @iikillerkitteh @pixelwisp

#hopelesspf #hawks #wing hero hawks #hawks x reader #hawks x y/n

[star-spangledstud]

Better Than Me (2/2)

Part one is here!

Summary: You really are better than them. 

Pairing: Steve Rogers x (female!)Reader.

Word Count: 3000-ish.

Warnings: Angst. Fluff.

It was ridiculous. So ridiculous that it bordered near downright insane. Absolutely fucking ridiculous. Impractical, stupid and completely, utterly ridiculous. Beautiful, sparkly and downright amazing, but ridiculous. You fucking loved it.

The baby pink, bejeweled handgun sat inside a pink velvet box on your lap. The bow, which was also pink, of course, was lying at your feet, which were clad in bedazzled silver Louboutins. Gems of all colors on the rainbow covered it on all sides, from the barrel to the handgrip and along the safety pin.

You gazed up at Tony, who wore an amused expression on his face, before glancing over at Pepper. She had her hand over her mouth in embarrassment, clearly horrified by Tony’s gift choice. The card read that it was from both of them. Clearly, that wasn’t the case. 

“Happy birthday, kid.” He said with a smirk that nearly extended from ear to ear.

“I don’t even want to know how much you spent on that,” Pepper muttered, shaking her head while you took the thing out of the pink and white polka-dotted tissue paper.

The others sighed audibly when you smiled, annoyed that Tony’s gift overshadowed theirs yet again. To be fair, they’d all expected it, but all of them secretly hoped any one of their gifts would be your favorite. 

“I love it,” you said, twirling the weapon around in your hand, “and I agree with Pepper, I can’t even imagine how much you spent on this thing...”

“You’ll make it work,” he mused, “Two million dollars, by the way, and you could just thank me.”

Your breath caught in your throat and for a moment, you were sure Pepper was going to faint. Natasha shook her head, watching the scene unfold in horror. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen. Wanda, who seemed to share none of her feelings, had created a monster out of you.

“Thanks, Tony,” you blew him a kiss, unable to get up from your seat at the dinner table that was covered in white roses in silver vases and wine that came from expensive bottles.

“It’s very pretty,” the witch said, “Can I hold it?” 

“Please,” you shoved it into her hands, “by all means.” 

“You’re insane, Tony,” you said as you took the gift Bruce had gotten for you from his outstretched hands with a smile, “Absolutely fucking nuts, but I love you for it.”

Your eyes went around the room, finding Steve at the end of the table of which you sat at the head. You were the birthday girl, after all, the pink satin sash draped around you said so in large, cursive letters and so it was your turn to have the most important seat of the house. It was a ridiculous ordeal, he thought so anyway, but you were smiling and chatting and enjoying the company of your friends and it was good to see. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened and knew very well he was to blame. 

He was the one who pushed you away, even though it was for your own good.

You took Thor’s gift just as the waiter began to serve your first course, and since he was seated closest to you, you thanked him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Steve’s gift came last. You didn’t expect anything from him given the circumstances.

Four hours, six courses and many glasses of wine and Asgardian mead later, you found yourself back in your room. Gifts given to you by your fellow team members were sprawled out on your bed, ranging from a pair of silk pajamas with glittery Ugg slippers to match from Wanda to Starbucks and Sephora gift cards from Sam and everything in between. Chocolate covered strawberries in a glittery box, two romance novels, a bottle of beautifully aged red wine from Asgard and a peach-toned Dior lipstick, all tokens of appreciation given to you by the people you cared about the most. 

Despite the hardships that you faced the previous year and the social distancing that occurred during that time, you couldn’t deny how good it felt to be with the team again. You’d changed a lot in a year, grown to be a different person than the one you were before. It wasn’t necessarily a good or a bad thing in your mind, it just happened naturally.  

You sat down beside the velvet box, eyes automatically flying towards the item on your far left. A drawing of you, sitting on a terrace, staring out into the sunny skyline with a cup of coffee in your hand. It was an old drawing by the looks of it because your hair was much shorter and a different shade and your clothing was far plainer than it was now; black jeans and a white t-shirt. A signature that read SR sat in the bottom right corner in messy, doctor-like handwriting. It made your toes curl. 

Of course, he was the one with the overly personal gift. You didn’t know whether it was because he simply had no fucking clue what 21st-century women liked to receive for their birthdays or whether he’d purposely done it to make you remember the day it was drawn, but the latter happened and now, you were sitting on your bed with prickling eyes and goosebumps that lined your skin.

You remembered that day very vividly. You’d only been an Avenger for three months and were struggling to adjust to the fact that you had to suddenly follow orders. Before joining the team, you’d worked alone, hired by people with deep pockets and dark intentions. You made your own rules. 

The first time Steve had taken you out for coffee he kind to offer you advice. At first, you thought it felt a little like he was trying to be the human resource manager with the way he talked to you, you continued to meet up every Saturday afternoon and as the weeks passed, something in the dynamic changed.  He loosened up, got rid of his Captain America persona and instead became Steve. You didn’t know what caused the change, but it was good, allowed you to actually get to know the man behind the suit and vice versa. 

That particular day was a good one, It was a sunny day in spring, not too hot and not too cold, with a soft breeze that carried the scent of fresh flowers across the terrace. You’d ordered a latte, Steve liked it black. You weren’t talking, but instead, a comfortable silence hung between you. You’d brought a book just like you always did and read it while occasionally eyeing the people that passed you by. Steve, whose cheeks had become fiery red out of the blue, pulled out a leather-bound sketchbook and began to draw.

You never asked him what he was drawing, even when he stored away his pencils and shoved the book back inside his tote did you not bother to pry. Not even when you became so close you’d sometimes fall asleep together on the couch, did you not ask. 

You knew now, but they didn’t say ignorance is bliss without reason.

You began to mindlessly pick at three layers of lavender toned sparkling nail polish, pulling at it as it came off your fingers with far too much ease. You’d paid the lady $60 for your manicure three days prior and now, you were ripping it off. With a deep sigh, you pushed yourself up, gripping the back of your heels so you could slip them off with ease. You’d probably never wear them again. 

You slowly began to clean up the mess, discarded packaging, boxes, and gift bags and placing them in the corner of your room near the door. You put everything away except for the drawing, which you couldn’t decide what to do with. Why was it such a big deal to you, anyway? You hardly spoke to Steve anymore and if you did, it was during pre- and post-mission briefings. Maybe that’s why it made you feel so strange. it didn’t feel right, such a personal, intimate gift after how far the two of you had drifted apart. 

He hadn’t asked you about Netflix in four months and you hadn’t offered your expertise on which shows and movies were the best. You didn’t bring him coffee anymore but instead, he made his own, never leaving enough in the pot for you to make a cup as well. The message he sent you was loud and clear and in return, you were an open book. 

He’d grumble when a stranger was seated at the breakfast table on Sundays courtesy of your hospitality, avert his eyes when they tried to kiss you openly (which you refused). The pang in his chest would hit him when he saw Ubers out front whose engines were running to carry you to your dates in high-end restaurants and fancy bars. He wasn’t jealous, he kept telling himself. He was just worried about your safety when you disappeared into the night with strange men. Men that weren’t him, ironically. 

He should’ve seen you when you were right in front of him. When you were there, literally waiting for him to make a move on you, begging him with your mannerisms and your looks, your glances, and smiles even when his jokes weren’t funny. He knew damn well you would make an amazing couple, that you could take on the entire fucking world as a duo, but he was too scared to put it on the line, too scared of what might happen once the bad guys caught a whiff of your relationship. They’d already tried to destroy Bucky and Jesus Christ, they nearly succeeded. He couldn’t handle the thought of losing you to an organization like HYDRA, or worse. He never told you this. You had no idea. You were convinced he didn’t want you because of your flaws. Because of who you were. 

You got over it, shut out the thought of ever holding hands with Steve in public, the thoughts of ever feeling his lips softly pressing against your plump cheeks and his body weighing down on top of you while his voice vibrated against your ear and neck. You managed to forget about him, managed to exchange the memories and fantasies of him for diamond necklaces, silk blazers, and expensive shoes. You traded him in for strangers with big bank accounts driving nice cars wearing expensive suits. They managed to fill the void he created by pushing you away. 

So yeah, the gift bothered you. It was too nice, too sweet, so sweet you had to struggle to stay stoic when thanking him earlier. You literally had to stop yourself from smiling too big, from allowing tears of gratitude and happiness to completely ruin your make-up. if things had been different, you would have done those things. They weren’t. He didn’t want you and now he was being nice. It didn’t make sense. 

Just as you were about to change into a different outfit for the evening, your phone vibrated. You picked it up off your nightstand and opened it. It was a text message, but not from the guy who would be knocking on the front door in the coming hour.

I didn’t get a chance to personally wish you a happy birthday. Can we talk? -S

You gripped the device so hard you nearly crushed the screen. Six months ago, a message like this would’ve had you crying on your bathroom floor for four hours. Now, it just made you angry. So angry, that you picked your studded Louboutin off the floor and chucked it at the wall. The heel broke off against the concrete, but you didn’t notice. You weren’t going to wear them again anyway.  

Your fingers typed furiously, breathing coming out in shallow huffs. Images of the girls he’d brought back to Tony’s party’s flashed before your eyes while your fingers went faster than your brain could keep up with. 

Roof. Omw. 

Whether he understood the abbreviation ‘omw’ or not, you didn’t take the time to guess. You left your room without changing into the other dress or putting on new shoes. The elevator went up agonizingly slowly, but it was too late to go back and take the stairs. The buttons were pushed and the door closed. 

He was standing by the edge, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest. In contrast to you, he had changed his attire, leaving the light blue button-down he was wearing earlier for a plain white t-shirt and black sweatpants. He looked down at your feet, noticed how your polished toes were bare and opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again when he caught the expression on your face. You weren’t surprised to find him there first. Hell, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d come up there running. Apparently, though, he did know what ‘omw’ meant.

“What the hell is this?” You asked, waving your phone in front of his face, “what do you think you’re doing?” 

“What do you mean?” He asked, voice wavering. 

“What do I mean? What...,” you snorted, “What do you mean?! The gift, the talking? We shouldn’t be here.” 

“But why?” He knew why but chose to ignore the sensical part of his brain that told him he shouldn’t be doing this.

You lifted your arms, a deep breath leaving you while you considered what to say. You wanted to come up with an excuse, tell him you were busy or that you’d lost sight of not just him, but the entire team, but fuck it, lying wouldn’t get you anywhere. It had never gotten you anywhere before.  

“Because I have to get over you.” 

He was silent, taking in your words. They stung, even though he already knew the truth they carried. 

“I couldn’t have you constantly hanging around me anymore. I couldn’t stand seeing those girls hanging off your arm at those stupid parties and I sure as hell didn’t want to hear how fun they were and how great and wonderful and how amazing, and-”

He stepped forward, gripping your arms. The sudden contact made blood rush to your head, making you nauseous and dizzy simultaneously. 

 “I spent so much time wondering why they were better than me,” you mumbled, “I still haven’t figured it out.” 

“They aren’t better than you,” he replied softly, “they don’t even compare to you.” 

You looked up, eyes large and glossy and so goddamn pretty with that champagne eyeshadow and winged liner and Steve thought he was going to lose his mind then and there.

“I had to let you go because I’m afraid,” he admitted, “terrified of what might happen if anyone tries to get to you because of me.” 

“Steve,” you tried, but couldn’t find words. 

All this time, you thought he didn’t like you. That he wasn’t interested in you, didn’t want anything from you but a friendship at most. You’d taught yourself to ignore your constant desire for him because it would never be reciprocated.

“When you distanced yourself from me, I knew I’d messed up, but it was too late. I’d dug a hole for myself and there was nothing I could do to get back out,” he snorted, “I needed those girls as a distraction, but none of them are as good as you.” 

He smiled sadly, taking your hands in his larger, calloused palms and began to rub circles on your knuckles. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, “I’ve been stupid and an ass and I don’t deserve to even be in the same room as you. I fucked up, Y/N.”

The skin on the back of his neck was soft when you clasped your fingers around it, muscles tensing up when you began to pull him down to meet you. Without heels on, you’d lost a significant amount of height on him, causing him to tower over you. On a hot day, he could be your personal parasol, shielding you from the sun with his entire body.

“Idiot,” you mumbled before his mouth found yours. 

He kissed you, hands gripping your waist out of fear that if he were to let go, he’d wake up in his bed alone. But it wasn’t a dream, he knew it because the soft feeling of your glossy lips against his own was unlike anything he’d ever felt. 

“Idiot,” you said again when you took a moment to breathe. 

“I am,” he kissed you again, the sweet taste of Chardonnay and that night’s dessert - creme brulee and vanilla ice cream - still lingering on your tongue, sending his senses in complete overdrive. 

“I don’t want to stay away from you anymore,” he said finally, “I’d never let anyone hurt you.” 

You smiled, heart ready to explode from the sudden burst of happiness you experienced for the first time in a long time. Maybe Wanda was right all along. 

“Steve, I can defend myself. You know that, right?” You mused.

“I’ll kill them if they try.” 

He captured your lips with his again. The scent of his cologne, oud, and pine, nearly caused your knees to buckle from under you. You didn’t even realize the goosebumps that lined your skin, or the fact that the date you were supposed to meet up with had already bailed on you. It didn’t matter, because you finally had Steve where you wanted him. It only took for the two of you to drift apart almost completely for you to realize that you could never truly get away from one another. 

You placed your head on top of his chest, allowing his body heat to warm you up in a hug that engulfed you. It was nice, the feeling of his chest rising and falling slowly while you watched the city’s skyline in the dark. The want for it had been suppressed for so long you almost forgot what it felt like. 

“Steve?” You asked, peeking up at him through false eyelashes and three layers of waterproof mascara. 

“Hmm?”

“Your gift was my favorite.”

Yeah, all of those bitches definitely weren’t better than you. 

#steve rogers imagine #steve x reader #steve rogers imagines #steve rogers #marvel imagine #marvel smut #marvel #marvel writing #captain america imagine #captain america #captain america smut #captain america fic #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers fic #jammywrites #avengers imagine #avenger x reader

[fleckcmscott]

Bewitching Hour

Summary: October has been a blissfully busy month. With Halloween around the corner, Arthur and Y/N have some planning to do.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 4,665

A/N: Special thanks to @hhandley80​ for this request! You've been so supportive and sweet. I truly appreciate you and hope you enjoy it!

On a side note, my oneshots will be more sporadic. I'm still writing but life has been life. Also, I've finished the first draft of another multi-chapter featuring Arthur and Y/N. It's going to take time to rewrite the subsequent drafts and edit, edit, edit. The chapters will go up once the story is ready. Thanks for your patience and support! 🙂 I heart you all!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask! 

Arthur's suggestion that they make plans to celebrate Halloween should not have been a surprise. He loved starting traditions with Y/N, and she prized adopting them with him. "It's been awhile," he'd said as they'd walked arm-in-arm to the laundromat. "I think it'd be nice."

Holidays had been a source of merriment most of her life. The beauty of red and green decorations at Christmas. Turkey and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. An egg hunt and chocolate rabbit at Easter. The togetherness of family during them all.

Halloween, though, wasn't a favorite.

As a child, she'd had fun trick-or-treating, riding her bike from house to far-flung house. And she hadn't minded escorting her little sister as a teenager. Y/N's homemade witch costume had been passed down. She could still recall the sleekness of the ribbon between her fingers as she'd secured the pointed hat under Mabel's chin.

But the magic had fallen away. When married to Jeff, she'd had to attend his boss's annual party. After receiving an apologetic shrug and kiss, she'd be relegated to hanging out with the other wives. They'd included her in their recipe swaps, in their exchanges of mild gossip. Her natural friendliness made chit-chat easy, far easier than having a good time. Those evenings had been spent nursing a glass of wine and willing the clock to go faster.

During the period she'd cared for her father, she'd tried to hand out candy. She liked being a good neighbor and imparting kindness in the form of bite-sized sweets. As his health had declined, the porch light had gone dark. Random rings of the doorbell would result in shouting and swearing. Repeated attempts to explain the door's lock wasn't broken. Festivity would transform into drudgery. It hadn't been worth the trouble. Instead, she'd watched terrible TV specials while her thoughts wandered to a future far from Boonville. A future she'd doubted would ever be.

"I don't know if it's your thing," Arthur had continued, bringing her back to the present. "But you might enjoy it with me." The response he longed for was evident in the worrying of his pocket, outlines of his knuckles visible through the tan cloth.

Everything they'd experienced together had soothed the sting of those wasted years. The hesitancy lurking in her was silly. Unwelcome. Less than either of them deserved. She'd met his keen eyes and half-smile. The sudden mental image of him dressed as a cowboy or pirate, eyepatch and all, prompted a laugh. Convinced her as she dug out her dry-cleaning stub. "It isn't my thing," she'd said. "But you are."

Relief had relaxed his wrinkles, save for his crows feet, which had deepened as he'd returned her happy expression. A slender arm wrapped around her waist, drew her against his solid frame. Once the clerk disappeared through the swinging doors to retrieve their clothes, Arthur grasped her chin and kissed her. The tender explorations were soon sloppy, and she'd giggled, his enthusiasm becoming her own. Their noses had met, his lashes resting on his wide cheekbones. "I think you're the sweetest treat, Mrs. Fleck."

Currently, Donahue's Department Store, Gotham's number one retail emporium (if the ads were to be believed), was bustling with last-minute shoppers. Weary mothers escorted their babbling children through the aisles. Clerks swapped out displays for the changing blue light specials. Lines went for yards. Patricia and Y/N sought refuge at a corner table in the café on the top floor. The warm glow from the pendant lamps provided a relaxed ambience, one that matched the hot cider and pumpkin spice cake they were savoring.

"I've got my grandson on Sunday," Patricia said between bites. "My daughter's going to a party with a medical records tech from Gotham General. Met him when she missed the bus. They split a cab and hit it off." Chuckling, she lifted her mug. "Speaking of, how's married life been so far?"

Memories of the past week quickened Y/N's heart, until she thought it might stop. How Arthur had gripped her replacement Social Security card, just to read her new name. The way he'd grab her for a twirl whenever they were in the kitchen. The reverence in his gaze when they'd lay together after sex, a look that both thrilled and made her blush. "The bills for his medication and appointments will no longer make us cringe," she deadpanned. She lowered her fork. "When we met, I was kind of blindsided - I'm not the type to fall in love quickly." The corners of her lips tugged up. "Being married to Arthur feels like a habit. A habit I should have learned twenty years ago."

"I'm glad you found each other." Patricia reached across the light brown table and covered Y/N's hand, gave it a squeeze. Then she wiped frosting from her mouth and nodded in the direction of the escalator. "Now let's find a costume that'll drive him nuts."

Beyond the colorful cosmetics and pungent perfume counters, they sorted through racks of vinyl smocks and plastic masks. Pop culture icons and princesses. Vampires and spooks. Knockoffs of classic movie monsters. Most were poorly made and decidedly uninteresting. Y/N pawed through accessories in a nearby basket, a cigar here, a patched hat there. "How about a hobo? I could steal Arthur's tie."

"This was his idea. Give him something a little exciting." After a roll of Y/N's eyes, Patricia held out a plastic display bag. "Found it."

The white font on its blue label declared she should "Create a unique look!" A woman in a leopard-print leotard and bow-tie wore black cat ears and a tail, the only two items included in the set. Y/N's nose wrinkled. "I don't think so, Patricia." She rummaged through another bin and examined a hockey mask. "I don't show a lot of skin."

"You show Arthur." Patricia ignored Y/N's glare, continuing to shove it at her. "Every man loves a woman dressed as a cat. Our next lunch is on me if I'm wrong."

Patricia could be relentless, but Y/N had to admit she was usually right. She arched a brow as she eyed the costume. Maybe she could find a solid body suit instead of animal print. The kit was only $2.98. And her friend had made it a challenge. "You're on. But I'm not wearing a bow-tie." She crossed her arms across her chest and tapped her mouth. "Your turn. Would Robert like you as a French maid or a go-go dancer?"

~~~~~

It was a busy season for performers. Arthur remembered HaHa's talent agency being booked solid for October by the end of August. Myriad functions at nursing homes, parties, and children's organizations took place throughout the city. Amusement Mile had a series of special events, allowing Arthur to work extra hours before the slowness of winter dragged in. Once the holiday was over, he'd buy make-up and props on clearance.

He'd always assumed he would like Halloween - if he'd had the chance to celebrate it properly. It was about connection, something he'd never managed. The customs gave him a pretense, a template to meet people, rather than leaving him wondering how to go about it. Provided a hiding place for his seeming inability to act normal.

Recollections of the day were few but vivid. When he'd been around eight, there'd been a party at school. The teacher had made brownies and given the students a half-hour respite from lessons. (A welcome relief, since he wasn't very good at most of them.) But he hadn't had a costume. Hadn't known how to reply when the other kids asked where it was. Not wanting to be left out, he'd pocketed a watercolor pallet and sneaked to the bathroom.

The teacher (he wished he could remember her name) had walked in as he'd smeared green and blue on his face, a pathetic attempt at a turtle. Fear of punishment had caused his laughter. But her kindness as she knelt, wiped away tears and pigment with a scratchy, brown paper towel, had calmed him. "Wait here," she'd instructed. It had taken all his courage not to run home.

After some minutes, she'd returned, an old white sheet in one hand, black marker and pair of scissors in the other. "The nurse won't miss this." She'd traced eyeholes, helped him cut them out. She'd asked questions. About his mother and what it was like at home. Questions he was at a loss for how to answer. Finally, she'd draped the cloth over his head. "There," she'd declared. "Gotham Elementary has its own ghost."

Even as he'd gotten taller and the sheet no longer went beyond his knees, that costume had remained his go-to. He'd venture out to the rest of his building, knocking on paint-chipped doors and pushing broken buzzers. Having learned to stay away from doors that yelling or funny smells emanated from, he hadn't gotten a lot of candy. What he had collected he'd shared with Penny. The wax lips became a free toy. He wasn't sure his memory of startling his mother and being tickled until he couldn't breathe was real or imagined.

At twelve, he was told he was too old to go trick-or-treating. He'd starting scrounging for change to buy hard candies at Helm's Pharmacy. They weren't particularly appetizing, but they'd been what he could afford. Only a few kids rang, a number that dwindled further every year. Most neighbors kept their distance, likely aware he was troubled. Cinnamon discs and butterscotch drops had loitered around the apartment for months. He'd sucked on them in an attempt to cut down on his smoking, just to save money. It hadn't worked.

Y/N hadn't spoken about the holiday, not the way she had other special occasions. At first, he'd thought it had slipped her mind. Work, planning their honeymoon, completing the red tape required to meld all aspects of their lives had taken up much of their time. But, given her reluctance to talk in detail about her past heartache, he'd come to assume her Halloweens had been unpleasant. He was certain he could change that.

Sitting on the dingy, dark green plastic seat of the train car, he giggled to himself, chest puffing up as he straightened. They'd been man and wife for eight whole days. Movies and songs said love was supposed to be somewhere between serendipitous and fated. A happy accident that was meant to be. Lying awake at night, he would find himself wondering where they were on that scale. If the emotions swirling through him - the excitement of belonging, the fear of fucking up - were what every newlywed felt. Then Y/N would snuggle closer in her sleep, murmur nonsense into his skin, and for a few minutes he'd be at peace.

Years had been spent trying to figure out who he was. Trying to find an identity, his role within the world. While he was still searching, it had been far easier to become accustomed to the role of "husband" than he'd dreamed.

Teaching his wife about events across the city had been a delight. Gotham Village's Annual Costume Extravaganza was a parade that went all the way to Gotham Square. He'd participated a couple of times, never formally registering but slipping into the clown section. It had been exhilarating. Had allowed him to pretend, for a little while, that he was being seen. That the crowds lining the sidewalks were cheering for him. Signs for extravagant balls were plastered on billboards and lampposts throughout the streets; he'd have gladly attended and shown her off. A haunted house was being held in a building in his old neighborhood, a fundraiser for the orphanage. He hadn't brought that up.

In the end, once he'd explained trick-or-treaters went from apartment to apartment, they'd decided on a cozy evening at home. The details had been left to her. Whatever she'd plan, he'd love it. He wondered what she'd disguise herself as. Would she be a sexy devil or nurse, like he'd seen on a sit-com? The notion sparked a fire in his cheeks.

Given how busy he'd be, he'd stay dressed as plain, old Carnival. Part of him regretted accepting two gigs, especially on a Sunday. He would have preferred her company. But he wanted to put the money towards the wedding band he'd put on layaway. (Even though they had one account, he wasn't going to let her chip in for it.) He should already be wearing it for all of Gotham to see.

The lurch of the subway prompted him to rise and grasp the pole grip. His stance widened as it came to a halt, knees bending with the instinct of a man who'd ridden public transportation since he was a boy. As soon as the graffiti-covered doors parted, he stepped out onto the platform and ascended the stairs, eager to share his new insurance information with Dr. Ludlow.

~~~~~

Scratchy violins and the hum of a theremin. Shrill shrieks and cracks of thunder. A cackle resounded, then a pipe organ, playing a melody in a minor key.

There was no doubt about it. Halloween spirit had saturated 4A.

NCB's Movie Marathon Mayhem had begun at 10:00 AM. Y/N had had it on since getting out of the shower, hoping to catch a horror classic while she decorated the apartment and prepared Bloody Mary mix. As she hung cotton batting between the television's rabbit ears, creating a long, narrow spider-web, she realized they were only playing cheesy B-movies. Giant insects threatening buildings. Science experiments gone wrong. Alien invasions. Oh well. At least she wouldn't have to pay much attention to get the gist of the plots.

The orange plastic platter, black bats along its edges, had been an impulse buy. She thought its array of sugary skeletons, candy bracelets, and Jolly Jack chocolate bars would be well received. But having seen only one or two kids in the lobby, she had no idea how many children lived in their building. She hoped she'd bought enough.

The cardstock window decorations she'd found were festive and matched Arthur's sweet nature. One portrayed a warted, green witch flying on a broom past a full moon. On the other, a ghost and mouse shared a pillowcase of candy and wished a "Happy Halloween." She held the tape dispenser between her teeth as she stuck them to their white front door.

Just then, the elevator dinged. Glancing to her left, she saw Arthur stroll down the cheerfully lit hallway. Buoyant expression on him, despite his white, blue, and red make-up being streaked from sweat. Striped prop bag on his shoulder and carved pumpkin cradled in his arms. "The store owner was going to throw it out," he explained with a half hug. "But he let me have it as a tip."

Classic, triangular eyes evoked the annual carving contest her parents had taken part of back home. Her father had been well-known in the community, being the town's only doctor. Entering the competition had been expected. They'd never won but enjoyed it all the same. Y/N had picked out the patterns and scooped out the squash's slimy innards. Her mother had baked the seeds. Peals of their laughter echoed in her ears, and a lump formed in her throat.

She swallowed hard against it. Dammit, Y/N. Get it together. This was supposed to be a special night for Arthur and her. She needed to distract herself. One of his curls peeked out from under his bald-cap and green wig. She twirled a strand around her finger. "With that toothy grin, it just might be your twin," she said. He pecked her temple, the kiss sticky from greasepaint. She lit the half-melted candles using his red lighter and put the jack-o-lantern just outside their door.

While he freshened his paint in the bedroom, she slinked into the bathroom to change. Arthur's and her routines were closely aligned; keeping her costume hidden had not been easy. The headband holding the furry cat ears was quite stiff, its teeth a tad sharp on her scalp. Once it was in place, she hid it under her hair. The lint on her form-fitting stretch top and leggings reminded her why she rarely wore all black. She retrieved her brown eyeliner from the nearby shelf and started in on her whiskers.

Arthur's footsteps neared, heavy due to his clown shoes, and Y/N turned to lean back on the sink. His thin lips parted as he scanned her body, forehead furrowed in pleasant surprise. His reaction planted a seed of bliss in her belly, one that bloomed every second they regarded each other. The lunch she'd have to spring for was well worth the pink shells of his ears. Eventually, she held out the fluffy, wired tail and a safety pin. "Would you pin this just below my waistband?"

Fingers grazing hers, he took it and sat on the toilet lid. He cupped her hips and pulled her closer, positioned her until the dampness of his breath hit a bare sliver of her back. "Hold still," he murmured, his voice sending a tingle through her. At his gentle ministrations, the spandex of her leggings felt snugger. "Did you- Did you read my journal?"

A faint click of metal as the pin closed. "No." She colored the tip of her nose, frowned at how lackluster the shade was. "I'd never do that. Even if I'm dying for a preview of your material. Why?"

"No reason." A soft huff, his shy smile clear in his answer. "I have an idea." He handed her a washcloth and hurried out of the room. She was patting her face dry when he returned, a fine tipped brush and pot of black greasepaint in his hand. "This'll look better."

Her brow arched. She'd only had her make-up done once; Patricia had invited her when they'd first met. Such an outing was not her preference, but Y/N had accepted, being new in town and wanting to learn about her colleague. There'd been champagne at the counter, which she'd sipped until she'd spent too much on eyeshadow and apricot scrub. The next morning, she'd put the products and a note on Patricia's desk: "I'll never forgive you. Thanks!"

The heat radiating from Arthur prompted her to close the gap between them. She craned her neck towards him, slid her palms to his yellow vest until she held him just below his ribs. His forefinger curled under her chin, lifted it slightly and angled it to the right. The cool, wet brush met her fevered skin. The dusty smell of the greasepaint blended with a whiff of stale cigarette smoke and traces of his sweat. She licked her lips.

The vibration of his chuckle was felt before heard. "I really like your costume," he said lowly. Two more ticklish caresses of the bristles on the apple of her cheek. "If you're not careful, I might werewolf and go wild."

She stretched closer to him, the fervor in his tone going straight to her center. Though he'd been growing bolder, his cocky side wasn't often revealed. She wanted it, thirsted to see more of the wild horse kicking inside him. Her touch ran over his chest, until she dipped under his black suspenders and pulled. "Are you going to gobble me up?"

Teasing strokes on her nose. "Maybe." Then his thumb whispered along her jaw and guided her face upwards. His kiss was supple, slow, a drag of his mouth as his tongue sought entry. She yielded, the simmer of anticipation bringing her to her toes. He groaned deeply and palmed her thigh, then fondled the curve of her rear-

The ding-dong of the doorbell halted them. He lifted his head and laughed, gaze sparkling. "I got paint on you."

She twisted in his arms and looked in the mirror. The whiskers caught her eye, embellished at the ends with dainty curlicues - his skill never ceased to impress her. Red brightened her lips and streaks of white were on her cheek. "It's all right. They'll just know I've been necking with a clown."

~~~~~

The sound of the bell continued. Over and over and over. More than it ever had in Otisburg. There were mummies, ghosts, a couple of skeletons. A superhero proudly displayed his red cape and blue tights, and a kid in her karate robe went on about her yellow belt. A tiny clown, too young to walk, was brought by her sister. As Arthur made funny faces, the baby cooed and tried to take his red, foam nose. Arthur parted with it gladly.

Only one member of the Wayne family appeared, slicked back hair and pompous pout making the disguise complete. The man accompanying the boy introduced himself as their upstairs neighbor and shook their hands. After one look at Y/N, he nudged Arthur's bicep. "So, she's the one keeping half the building up at night. Good on you, pal." Arthur blinked in confusion as she ushered the guy away, red-faced and muttering about his nerve.

Arthur was overly generous, giving out fistfuls of sweets while taking a few extra seconds to gather his nerves and compliment the costumes he liked best. It felt good to interact with strangers without constantly second guessing himself. Y/N would rub his arm or kiss his shoulder and tell him what a great job he was doing. "Kids are easy," he said, refilling the candy dish. But he reveled in her praises, anyway. And the knowledge that meeting the neighbors was going well.

Clean-up required little effort. The jack-o-lantern sat on their kitchen table, flames flickering as the wicks burned away. The door decor was packed safely for use next year. His plaid blazer was slung over the back of a dining chair and his wig was off. Y/N's decision to leave her whiskers on pleased him - she made a damn sexy cat. He pocketed the last few pieces of candy to snack on during the remainder of the evening.

The Sunday Night Special Presentation she'd picked out, a made-for-TV horror movie, began at 9:00 PM on GBC. Most of its airtime was punctuated by her tipsy snickers and legal wisecracks, which was typical when they watched something stupid. Yet, as the show went on, she grew quieter, barely speaking between sips of her third cocktail. As they sat on the sofa, her posture stiffened. Forearms crossed over her breasts. Her nails dug into her upper arm.

The change started two-thirds of the way into the show, when the plot about a doll running amok twisted into a story about a professional woman trying to assert herself against the demands of her mother. Against the expectations of availability. To fight for the simplicity of having dinner and peace and quiet. It resonated with him, which felt weird. Especially when the film cut to black, the implication being the mother would meet a violent end at the hands of her possessed daughter.

A cheerful jingle came on. Puerto Rico was a direct flight from Gotham Airport, it advertised, a flight that lasted "two hours and fifteen tropical minutes." They should get out while the weather was still good. The juxtaposition of mood broke him out of his ponderings. He flicked off the blaring television with the remote. Then he heard Y/N sniffling.

She set her glass on the coffee table, a slight tremble in her hand. "I need some air," she whispered as she rose, then went out onto the fire escape.

Arthur rubbed his thigh and pressed his lips together. He wasn't used to seeing her cry. Not from sadness. Should he follow her? Give her time? Both had worked previously, depending on the situation. But he wasn't sure what had upset her, what situation they were in now.

Exhaling sharply, he grabbed her glass and dumped the rest of the drink down the kitchen sink. Rinsed their dinner plates and put the slow cooker in the fridge. When he'd finished making decaf coffee ten minutes later, she still hadn't returned. He ambled towards the ajar glass door and stepped out.

Moonlight outlined her shapely figure and reflected off her hair, the silver a contrast to the orange glow of the streetlamps illuminating her face. Her stare seemed fixated on the street below. He followed it to see a group of ghouls and goblins spraying shaving cream on a shop window. A couple, one he'd see occasionally when out for a cigarette, walked down the sidewalk. A woman was half-carrying a drunk man towards a bus stop.

Upon clearing her throat, Y/N spoke. "I may not look like it, but I had a great time with you tonight. The movie just got to me." Relieved, Arthur sidled next to her, wrapped his arm about her back. Her head fell to his shoulder and she smoothed her hand over his stomach. "I don't mean to hide from you. Someday you'll know the details of my earlier life." She scoffed. "When I'm ready to think about them." He entwined their fingers and kissed her hairline, avoiding the wired tips of her cat ears.

Shivering, she took a shaky breath. "There are no skeletons in my closet. Only disappointments." Her voice cracked as she beamed at him, cupped his cheek, and pressed her face to his. "Knowing I'd get to have you would have made those years so much easier."

He held her tightly, massaging between her shoulders. She'd been speaking about herself, but he couldn't help thinking it was about him, too. His years with Penny. His stints in Arkham. The loneliness, the isolation, the endless anger and yearning to be more than a speck of dirt no one cared for. His journal was full of questions about where the hell his one and only was. If he'd known she'd be real, tangible instead of a figment, would existence have hurt less?

Wincing, he tried to push through those thoughts. To focus on her instead of himself. What mattered was that Y/N needed him. Perhaps a joke would cheer her. "I was thinking the other night of how easy it is to smile around you," he said. "You tickle my funny bone." Amusement bubbled in her throat, music to his ears. She released a contented sigh and nuzzled the crook of his neck.

Peaceful stillness ensued as the minutes passed. Though the breeze was chill, goosebumps forming on his pale skin, her affection kept his heart warm. His fingertips rubbed circles into her lower back, and she offered a pleasured hum. Across the way, footsteps pounded. He glanced to see a kid darting up the street, plastic pumpkin pail in tow. The boy's scream was filled with boundless energy: "Happy Halloween, Gotham!"

Snorting, Y/N took Arthur's hand and led him inside. The cheap tail she wore bounced with every exaggerated swivel of her hips. "I've behaved all evening, which your werewolf comment made extraordinarily difficult." She looped her arms around him and flashed a come-hither stare. "May I have a goodie?"

The scrape of her nails on his scalp coiled a knot in his abdomen. "Aren't you supposed to say 'trick-or-treat?'" he asked huskily.

"Your pussycat needs a petting or two." She closed the bedroom door behind them. "Maybe even a mauling."

His brows shot up on a hitched giggle. Then he palmed her hip while she started in on his buttons. Before she got too far, he traced a whisker with the pad of his thumb. Let their foreheads meet and pecked her eyelids. "Only if you give me something good to eat." He pressed into her, his enjoyment relentless, not waiting for her reply before devouring her mouth.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​, @howdylilflower​, @sweet-nothings04​, @stephieraptorr​, @rommies​, @fallenstarsabyss​, @gruffle1​, @octopus-plasma​, @tsukiakarinobara​, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​, @another-day-in-chuckletown​, @hhandley80​, @jokerownsmysoul​, @mrscarnival​

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

[ubemango]

commission 4: slow burn/best friends/college au w/  jin

(+or: we’re best friends and you’re literally So Great and i suck at knowing what i want but anyway i’m starting to think i like you ??????? au)

note 1: For my very very sweet and understanding friend @yeuj​ who helped me out when I needed it most .... I hope you enjoy 🥺🥺💕!!!!!! And thank you to Micah + Clove for helping me with my questions—thank you for your thoughtfulness, insight, and love!!!!! 🌷🌷🌷

note 2: I tried to make ramen-making as unboring as possible but it really is just....water and spice. If you’re confused about eating ramen at convenience stores please search that up on Youtube, I’ve exhausted my link resource skills (except for when I want you to listen to songs.) Also, the songs I mention are titanic/the end by cehryl and Subside by Eloise. I actually listened to Sweet Night on repeat while writing this so if u wanna listen to that... ;_;

note 3: everything about this story is in medias res. I realized I had no proper beginning or conclusion and I didn’t wanna change the flow of the story by concretely adding one or the other... so if the story feels incomplete/fragmented then please understand that this was a conscious and intentional decision done on my part :,) It’s slow burn!!!! I Love you ha ha!!

(i)

The library is open twenty four hours. The convenience store in the student centre is not.

“Please use your car,” you assert.

Seokjin huffs. “Then pay for my gas.”

It’s an empty threat. He’s got no business driving hard bargains when he has capital in the form of a rich CEO dad. He ignores your glaring, calmly closing his laptop, shoving it into his bag. Closing up shop after a derivative crisis you’d called him up for because he lives on campus, plus he never sleeps early. You appreciate that he gives into you so easily.

“Fine.”

So you go, searching for a convenience store that has those instant noodles you suddenly came up with a craving for this late at night. Seokjin’s used to it by now. You get things done when you want to, even if it means making a home of the pillowy chairs in the library you’d claimed for studying purposes.

The mathematical theory of chaos. You don’t want to think about it, and you click your seatbelt with a yell, throw your bag in the backseat with as much strength your anger allows for. “I hate school!”

“Please don’t scream in the car.”

“I hate it!”

Seokjin slots the key in. “Can you look up where the convenience store is?”

He tosses you his phone to unlock. You jab at the screen with more grumbling and colourful cursing, pulling up whatever Google Maps says is the nearest store open.

“Plug in the AUX cord,” Seokjin urges next. He merges into traffic, which is really only one car and the late night bus. A quiet night for your suffering.

“Can I play my—“

“Nope.” You sneer. Tapping open his playlists, you pass under orange lamp post after orange lamp post and scroll in silence before Seokjin groans. “I made a new playlist, pick that one.”

“What’s it called?”

You can see that he’s stiffened up. You don’t comment. “The one with the three heart emojis.”

Simple enough. You don’t care to sift through the songs, and the first one plays with one more indulgent tap of the screen.

Why don’t you tell her? I think you should. You know how you’re feeling, you can’t fight the truth…

Google interrupts the soft voice with the indication of the next right. Seokjin eases on the gas pedal. You watch him nod his head to the softness of the stereo. “I can’t pay for your gas.”

“I know you can’t.”

“I can pay for your ramen,” you suggest. Seokjin makes a quiet noise, like he’s amused by your generosity, or maybe he just thinks you’re dumb. You think it’s the latter.

“I don’t want you to pay for my ramen.”

“Then what do you want?”

The lamp post light striking Seokjin’s face gives way to the harsh red of the stoplight. In the stillness, he sends you a hard look. It makes you feel weirdly vulnerable, like he’s stripped you bare.

To make things worse, Seokjin says:

“Nothing you don’t want to give me.”

He doesn’t heed your confusion because he presses on the gas, looks straight ahead. You do too, and you try not to contemplate the cool brevity of his attention you suddenly want back. You push your uncertainty aside.

(He has a handsome face, you think.)

Seokjin interrupts, “So why’d you wait till now to study?”

“You know me.” Procrastination. The complete and utter mistake of underestimating the allotted time needed to get a successful grasp of concepts for your midterm. In not so convoluted terms, this class sucks ass.

“Yeah but that was—a lot of notes.”

It was. You probably pushed five weeks of material in the span of three hours. You can feel the very tips of your nervous system frying up as you pass through gas station-lit intersections. But there’s a real answer to his question, and you have the intense need to curl in on yourself in this leather seat.

“Well I would have started yesterday, but I was busy,” you counter.

“With what?”

“So you know Hyukjae from Psych?”

Seokjin pauses to listen to Google’s instructions, and immediately makes a left onto another main intersection. “Sure.”

“We went out yesterday,” you admit.

He hums a tight sound, tapping on the wheel. “Hm. How’d it go?”

It wasn’t bad. You shared butter tarts and laughed at his anecdotes and Hyukjae-from-Psych paid for your Uber home. He gave you a very weak hug before you slipped into the car. It was in that seat you’d decided you wouldn’t be sending him an I had fun! text that night.

“It was okay. Like, nice to me and stuff. But nothing…”

“…Worth revisiting.”

“Sure,” you mimic, and you wonder why he’s right.

“The guy’s okay,” he says. Almost like it’s with relief. “It’s—not to sound rude, but. Uh. I think it’s, uh—good. That you weren’t… interested.”

You think he’s gripping the steering wheel a little too tight. “Why?”

“Can’t trust guys with bad handshakes.” Seokjin chances a glance at you, and laughs at the confused scrunch of your eyebrows. “I met him during that networking conference in third year. Limp-wristed me. Like a chump.”

“Ew.” You can’t say he’s wrong. That hug Hyukjae gave you really was weak. The dude has noodles for arms. “But yeah, I guess you’re right. Wasn’t really my type.”

“Hm,” is all Seokjin comes up with. You watch him pass right through the turn Google tells him to take. “Oh shit. Sorry. I’m just. Thinking. About… limp… men.”

You snort. “What?”

“Like a man. A limp man. Hyukjae. Not me,” he clarifies fast—proudly— “just. Anyway! Back to you saying what your type was.”

“I wasn’t,” you accuse.

“Yeah well now I’m asking because I don’t wanna think about limp men. Your type, please.”

He sounds weirdly inquisitive. Demanding, almost. You chalk it up to the near-delirium of being awake past 1AM.

“I—don’t know,” you start. Somehow you feel like you’re messing something up. “He was kind, I like… kind. And soft. Sweet. You know Kim Taehyung? From Neuro? Like, almost big shoulders but not really. I like big shoulders. Yeah. Guys like Kim Taehyung-ish.”

Seokjin just hums again. There’s another song playing, and you don’t know how many you’ve rotated through in this playlist. You didn’t think it’d take this long to get to the store.

Google says it’s just two minutes away now. Seokjin says, “Cool,” and then sings along to the stereo.

You got me losing sleep over you… I usually sit still but now I can’t help but move… When I see you, I don’t know what to do…

(ii)

“Spicy or not spicy?”

“Whatever keeps my stomach lining intact,” Seokjin says.

You don’t say anything more and grab two of whatever ramen packaging isn’t scarily red. The convenience store is void of any customers, and the cashier rings you up with a very sour face for interrupting the show he’s got playing on his phone. His face shrivels up even more because all you can pay with is coins. Seokjin laughs behind you when you apologize for clattering the dimes too harshly on the counter.

“Enjoy,” the cashier announces, and he doesn’t mean it one bit.

The hot water machine at the back is a very intimidating thing next to the tiny display of cookies.  Too many buttons and knobs you don’t understand, so Seokjin takes on the chivalric role and prepares everything for you. He rips the plastic open with gentle hands. Dumps the powder with too much conviction.

You both watch the water stream hot into the noodles. “Do you like macadamia nuts in your cookies?”

“I guess,” you say.

“Wanna split a cookie?” He hands you chopsticks to stir the ramen with, gestures at the cookie display with a jut of his chin.

“Are you paying?”

“Can you imagine if I made you pay after I asked to split,” Seokjin spits at you. “Yes I’m paying.”

“Then I want chocolate chip.”

He freezes, then jabs smartly at his noodles for a tense ten seconds.

“You make me mad,” he finally answers. “Should we eat in the car?”

“The bowl is too hot to hold.”

The counter at the window it is. You’re sad that you didn’t buy pickled radish, but your coin purse has weeped all its coinage out. Seokjin leaves you as Noodle Guard, going off to pay for that bonus cookie with a crumpled five. In the next second you contemplate the evaporation of ramen soup, the cookie is duly dumped right next to you, and Seokjin takes a huge bite of what still appears to be extremely hot noodles.

He promptly chokes, and makes sputtering noises.

“Holy shit,” Seokjin cries.

You take a much, much slower bite. “You’ll be fine.”

“I thought I could be cool for you,” he cries some more.

“You don’t need to be cool for me. Who eats ramen in a cool way?”

Seokjin nods his approval, that tear of theatrics sliding down his cheekbone. He eats carefully. A noisy car roils on outside, and passes quickly outside your periphery.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you remember to say.

“I love standing at counters and eating things hot,” Seokjin retorts. He dodges the fist you aim at his abdomen with swift ease. “It’s no problem.”

“I—“ You don’t really know why but you need to talk. “You know—you’re really, um, kind.”

Foolery. Absolute foolery that sentence was, and the cashier probably heard that foolery, and Seokjin definitely heard that absolute foolery, and he’s laughing. Like really laughing, caught with the noodles dangling from in-between his teeth. That’s all you had to say? The guy drove you out to get cup noodles out of his own volition. That’s kindness maxed out, and he deserves better than you fumbling between your teeth. Your nerves have fried up so bad, you guess.

Seokjin’s giggles dwindle down. “Thanks,” he says, smiling small.

You blame the heat of your cheeks from the heat of your soup.

Neither of you are desperate to get to that last quarter of noodles to broth ratio. The knots of your shoulders loosen with the sound of your slurping combined, and silently you are reminded of Seokjin’s warmth, standing so close to you.

The easiest path to a nice ending involves a happy belly and Seokjin driving you home with nothing more than a goodbye and a thank-you as you slam the car door shut. This is not unknown to you, because you and Hyukjae-from-Psych took that easy path yesterday.

You just don’t do this often, contemplating all the routes of romance. When is it appropriate to laugh at a joke, to wipe your mouth on the napkin? To smile and peel at your heart and grant that person access to all your inner workings? You belatedly notice that Seokjin did not bring napkins.

(The moment in the car—nothing you don’t want to give me—you want to laugh at his jokes, and smile, peel and peel and peel at your heart, but slowly. Slowly, you put your chopsticks down.)

How funny it is to come to very sound conclusions within a split second, because all you know is that it feels good, being with him like this.

Seokjin, in your quiet realization, takes it upon himself to decide the cookie-eating rights.

“Want the first bite?” He asks, propping the chopsticks horizontally on his bowl.

You nod. Desperately you try not to look at him because you might make more realizations, and you don’t think you’re ready for any more unleashed and unknown emotions. “Please.”

He gives it to you. The right side decidedly has more chocolate chips, and  it’s a very nice explosion on your tongue. So nice you groan into it. “Oh that’s really good.”

He snatches the cookie away before you can take another bite. “I get bigger bites because I paid for it.”

“That—? Uh, that’s not how sharing works.”

“Yes it does,” Seokjin argues. But he just takes as normal a bite as ever. You can’t say you don’t focus on his mouth for too long, though—

—And you immediately seize up at the thought. Horrified, you shriek: “Actually just—have the rest of it!”

He looks alarmed. “O…kay?”

“You’ve got a nice mouth,” you blurt out next.

An absolutely awful feeling settles heavy in your stomach. Because almost immediately you realize that this is a kind and soft boy with nice anecdotes that have yet to be uncovered this night (he likes telling you stories) and he’s got wider shoulders than Kim Taehyung and you’re not sharing butter tarts but you’re sharing a cookie with him.

Another realization: does Seokjin have limp arms?

He puts the cookie down. (His arm looks very strong, doing that.) “I—thanks?”

��I think I’m losing my mind,” you note.

He watches you slump over the counter. Purposefully burying your face in your elbows to muffle your betraying mouth. “It’s late,” is all he says.

“Did that make you uncomfortable?”

“Not at all.” You don’t think you’re breathing. Your lungs have evaporated, like those steamy ramen noodles you just ate. Seokjin probably notices you’ve stopped moving, so he says, “Really.”

“Okay.”

“Did it—did it make you uncomfortable?”

“Not at all,” you say.

“Cool. Do you wanna go—“

You stand up straight, grab all your garbage before he finishes. You don’t look at him. “Yep, yep, please.”

(iii)

He puts the key in the ignition, and doesn’t budge.

“Somehow I feel like you wanna say something else,” Seokjin says.

You curl your hands into fists. “It’s late.”

“I’m aware.”

“I’m—I’m sorry.” You are acutely aware of how garbled you must sound. It’s starting to get on your nerves, how flimsy you’re being. “I’m not… thinking.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re being pretty articulate for someone with an empty brain.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Seokjin sighs.

The seat squeaks where you tense up. “I don’t want to think about your mouth.”

“Do you wanna know what I think?” You nod. Jesus. You’ll just let him do the talking from now on because your tongue can’t be trusted this early in delirium, late in the hour. “I—I…”

Seokjin struggles some more, then deflates. He starts laughing.

“I… don’t drive just anyone out to convenience stores at two in the morning for ramen. You have to know that.” He clears his throat. His eyes are shiny with the harsh glare of neon signs. “I guess I just—wanna know… what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking…” Your lips part. Searching for words feels like a physical thing—your stomach is swimming with what feels like a billion thoughts but nothing comes up for air. “I’m thinking I—don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

Seokjin turns to look at you. “I won’t make fun,” he whispers.

“I think. I think, you look—um—really… Good. Um. R-Really… good, right now.”

“Thanks.” He looks up like he wants to say something but his eyes harden where he gazes, locking in on the dust motes of the windshield. Your lungs swell small in the quietude. “I think you really look good, too.”

If baser compliments already have you burning then you don’t know what you’d do if he tried anything more romantically complex. Some people are meant for loud love stories and grand gestures and you—all you can do is think too much and you want to say more but Seokjin understands. He understands your silence, your ineptitude.

In a fit of controlled passion, you reach over the console, grasping at his knuckles till he flips his palm right into yours.

“Feels… ”

You wait for something to come to mind. A phrase, a proper thought to give utterance to, all the failures and successes of the night. Faithfully, nothing comes.

It just feels.

And Seokjin seems to agree. He holds tight between the grooves of your fingers.

“You’re very pretty and it hurts,” he says, and he doesn’t try to meet your gaze, and one feeling comes resolute: it feels right.

#bts scenarios #seokjin scenarios #jin scenarios #bts #jin #seokjin #ubemango fic #f: commissions

[mattzerella-sticks]

metamorphosis

Chapter 2 (ao3)

Prologue (ao3) (tumblr)

What if, when Jack was born, he stayed a baby?

A retelling of season 13, with a few key differences.

No planned schedule, will update when I finish chapters lol

Chapter 2 - Sam I

           Sam cursed Jack’s aim as he hit him directly on his chest. The pee immediately soaked through the fabric, Sam suffering its unnatural warmth. He blindly groped for anything nearby to shove atop Jack and staunch the flow from his bladder before it spread too far. He gently pressed a motel towel down, Jack giggling all the while as he ruined it much like he did Sam’s shirt. “Seriously?” Sam sighed, “Couldn’t have done this earlier?” Jack answered with more laughter, kicking his feet in the air to punctuate his glee. Seeing his joyful wriggling lessened Sam’s exasperation. “Okay… It was kind of funny,” he told Jack. Then, leaning closer, “Next time, do it when Dean changes you… if he ever changes you.” Sam faltered, smile drooping slightly. He adjusted to cover that momentary lapse, his expression softer. “You done?” Jack stuck his fist in his mouth, babbling around stubby digits. Sam, hesitantly, lifted the towel away from Jack. There’s no active peeing, but the large stain on the towel was not something Sam wanted to see. Dissimilar to his shirt, it’s unsalvageable. “Damn – darn, darn it!”

           Tossing the towel over his shoulder, stain-side up, Sam finished fastening Jack’s diaper. His nose scrunched from the wafting odor, and he audibly gagged because of it. Leaving Jack on the bed, Sam whipped the towel off and dumped it into a waiting trash bin. Then he wrapped his fingers along the bottom hem of his shirt to take it off in one swift move.

           Dean returned partway through this struggle. He whistled, slamming the door behind him. “Stripping for the baby?” he chuckled darkly, his eyes dull and his grin vicious, “Not what I imagined when I told you to go nuts with him…” Dean emptied his pockets onto the room’s lone table, tugging his necktie free when done.

           Sam ignored him, balling his shirt between twitching fingers. “So,” he started, “did you figure out if we’ve got a case or not?” He opened his duffel, zipper ripping through the silence of what he chose not to say.

           Dean shrugged, stepping out of his leather agent shoes, chair held for leverage. “Maybe,” he coughed, “A connection, something…”

           Sam paused, temple creasing from the sudden onset of a migraine. He closed his eyes, grip tightening on the unstained button-down in his hands. “A maybe…” he repeated, quieter, “then you’re not sure?”

           “I’ve got a hunch,” Dean growled, “and we’re not leaving ‘till I at least make certain of it.”

           Closing his eyes, Sam rocked back on his heels. He rubbed his neck, feeling every strain and ache from the past few days weighing on his body. “Of course we aren’t.”

           Dean used the same excuse when they arrived, and with each delivery it became increasingly unflinching and stubborn. During its first appearance, Sam rightfully challenged him. He cornered Dean outside the motel’s lobby, demanding why they pulled off the highway instead of continuing their journey home, to the Bunker. Dean explained, “There’s been a few deaths in town, our M.O.” Sam’s unsure how he learned this. He guessed, during Dean’s shift in the passenger seat, he feigned unconsciousness to scour the web. “Figured we’d scope it out and gank whatever summ’na’bitch’s wreaking havoc.” Sam, exasperated, reminded Dean of the little bundle with immeasurable power somehow asleep in Baby’s backseat despite Dean’s atypical car door slamming during his exit. “What?” Dean asked, his voice a dark and stormy sound that rattled Sam’s bones like lightning, “Dad hunted with you when you were his age. It’ll be fine.”

           Now, hearing about Dean’s ‘hunch’, Sam ground his teeth and refrained from speaking his mind. He told himself that this case, Dean’s attitude, was part of the healing process. Some point down the line, Dean will be in a better place where he wouldn’t have to handle his brother with kid gloves. Only days have passed since they lost their mom, an ally, a virtual stranger, and their best friend. If Sam applied pressure too fast, too hard, he might crack Dean’s already fractured well-being into a larger mess where there’d be no hope of repairing. He shouldn’t take any unnecessary risks with his brother’s well-being.

           “So?” Sam asked, doing up his new shirt, playing along. “What’s this hunch you have?”

           “Well, when I checked the victims’ houses for haunting signs, I came up empty,” Dean said, hopping into his jeans, “Turned my thinking around, started asking if there were any connections between the two stiffs and, apparently, both were seeing the same therapist.” He fastened the button of his jeans, then moved to dig out some shirts. “Some woman named Mia Vallens. They’d been seeing her, separately, because both had – uh… had lost someone in their lives.”

           “What are you thinking then? Revenant? Shifter?”

           “Not sure,” he said, “But that won’t stop me.”

           Sam’s eyes floated behind his eyelids, “Please don’t go in guns blazing.”

           Dean scoffed, thumb lightly brushing the hammer of his gun; unholstered, ever since he started changing outfits. “I’m not that reckless. Thought I’d snoop around, y’know? Get a sense what kind of monster she is before I put a bullet between her eyes. That way I don’t get it wrong and tip her off.” He slipped into an old flannel, worn at the elbows from use, and gestures at his outfit. “You think this is good enough?”

           Sam huffed, “For what?”

           “For therapy?”

           “Pretty sure there isn’t a dress code for therapy,” he snickered, “Is this why you didn’t just go straight there?”

           Dean nodded, “Figured a badge and gun might make her antsy, raise unwanted suspicion. Going in as a new patient’ll help me fly under her radar.” He paused, clearly thinking about what he will say next. He swung his keys around his pointer finger, metal jingling with every spin. “Plus,” he added, “wanted to check in, see if you were ready to join me. United front and all that… going in blind’d be better with two bodies rather than one.”

           “Dean, it’s just therapy.”

           “Don’t remind me.”

           Sam shook his head, glancing at Jack. The young boy watched them with keen interest, golden brown eyes unblinking as they studied them; like he understood what they discussed. Sam discarded this thought in his next breath. He might have ancient power coursing through him, but he’s not even a week old. “You know I can’t,” he started, “Someone has to be here with Jack.” Since Dean refused to do it, Sam’s stayed in the motel for most of this case.

           Dean’s attempt to appear cheerful dispersed like smoke, familiar dreariness scarring his features. “Kid’ll be fine by himself for an hour or two,” he muttered.

           A vein throbbed in his forehead, forcing Sam’s eye to twitch. “He’s not a kid. He’s a baby.”

           “He’s part angel.”

           “That doesn’t change anything,” Sam seethed, “Actually, that makes it more important we don’t let him out of our sight! There’s no telling what he can do, or what might happen if we left him alone for even a second! So, sorry if I can’t run off at the drop of a pin to play hunter because I have more important things to worry about. Things that you should be worrying about, too!”

           Dean recoiled like he’s been slapped, squeezing the keys so hard Sam can see his hand visibly tremble. Regret rose to his ankles and then, as if a dam broke, it’s at his neck and Sam struggled to breathe. He looked from Dean to Jack, the baby’s stare was still trained on Sam like he waited to see what he will say next. Like Sam will have an answer that fixed everything, pleased everyone.

           All Sam could give was a compromise.

           “I’ll come with,” he said, gaze trapped on his feet below, “Jack will, too. That’s the best I can offer.”

           Sam’s resolve stayed firm. He flexed his toes against the carpet as the silence dragged on, Dean obviously warring with himself over whether to accept Sam’s terms or storm out like Sam feared he might. The tension snapped with a high-pitched squeal from Jack, followed by some more clapping that had Dean saying, “Fine. Hurry up, then.” He didn’t lift his head until the door closed behind Dean and it’s him and Jack left in the room.

           Visibly deflating, Sam selfishly took a moment to gather his thoughts. Once he felt a semblance of normalcy, he began gathering what he needed. Sam hurriedly finished dressing, throwing on his jacket and almost tripped shoving his feet into some boots. Then, he returned to what he was doing earlier, helping Jack into his tiny shirt and overalls. Sam set Jack aside in the baby carrier, focusing on assembling the baby bag and slinging it onto his shoulder.

           Dean sat in the driver’s seat, engine running. He revved it as a warning while Sam safely tucked Jack in the back, Sam glaring at Dean’s dead-eyed expression in the rearview. His irritation ebbed by the time he joined Dean up front. The passenger side door barely closed, and Dean hit the pedal. Sam buckled his seatbelt after Dean peeled out of the parking lot.

           They reached the therapist’s office at record speed. During their drive, Sam kept a careful eye on both the speedometer and Jack, his gaze bouncing between the two, ensuring they were where they should be. There were few instances where Dean sped, testing Sam’s patience. But Sam would clear his throat, and the needle rebounded into lower numbers.

           Dean, in an act of revenge for Sam’s nitpicking, abandoned him for the therapist’s office without any offer to help once they parked. Although Sam wondered if it should count, since Sam hadn’t expected Dean to go out of his way and help him, regardless of how Dean caved when it came to bringing Jack. He fleetingly considered this, but ultimately decided it didn’t matter. He needed to hurry.

           Alone, Sam balanced the baby bag and Jack’s carrier in his hands. He chased after Dean, climbing the steps as a man, tall, white and utterly average, descended. They bumped shoulders, Sam mumbling an apology on reflex. He heard the passerby say something while Jack spewed raspberries in response. He didn’t give it more thought than that.

           Sam found Dean near the front desk, angrily slamming on a concierge bell. “C’mon, c’mon…” he grumbled, “it’s way past lunch break.”

           “Dean…” Sam stormed towards his brother, dropping the baby bag as he slammed Dean’s hand atop the ringing bell. “Quit it.”

           “What?” Dean barked, “Not like I’m annoying anyone.” He gestured around the waiting room, sweeping his arm to show Sam all the vacant seats pushed against the walls. “Am I?”

           “Actually, if you rang that bell at least three more times, I’d’ve gotten a headache.” A woman stepped into view, her dark skin glistening under the fluorescent lighting. She wore an oversized, orange turtleneck and a long skirt with pointed boots peeking out at the hem, adorned with rings, a necklace, and a barrette clipped in her afro puff hairdo. She forced a polite expression on her face, pocketing her hands in the folds of her skirt. “Can I help you with anything?”

           “Yeah,” Dean said, “We’re looking for the doc. You know if she’s in?”

           “I do.”

           She walked behind the front desk, ignoring Sam and Dean rather than finish speaking. Dean briefly glanced at Sam before clearing his throat. She stopped rifling through papers, arching her brow. It’s not likely she’ll do more without some prompting. “Well,” Dean growled, “where is she?”

           She huffed, fiddling with one of the rings on her fingers. Sam noted how it, like all the other pieces of her jewelry, was gold. “You’re looking at her,” she said, “I thought that was obvious.”

           “Not really,” Dean said, “I mean, you’re not even wearing a white coat!”

           Whatever expression Sam made Mia mirrored. Jack, meanwhile, giggled and shifted in his carrier, delighted by Dean’s idiocy. Jack’s carrier swung from the force of his mirth, forcing Sam to readjust his grip. As he did that, Sam used his other hand to pinch Dean’s wrist and forced his brother’s attention onto him. “That joke wasn’t funny the first time.” Dean rolled his eyes at Sam, then wretched himself free from Sam’s hold. Sam steered the conversation from there, “Sorry about him. We were here wondering if you might have an opening today?”

           Dean coughed, mumbling to himself. “Looks like she might…” He parried Sam’s scowl with a jerkish smirk.

           Mia glossed past Dean’s comment, folding her arms across her chest as she studied them. “I was actually about to close early,” she said, “had a lot of cancellations and… I’ve got some errands to run” –

           “Please,” Sam tried, leaning far into her personal space as he could without climbing the desk. “My brother was supposed to make an appointment, but with the move and everything it, uh… slipped his mind.” He dialed his puppy dog features to their highest setting, blasting her with his best Labradoodle. “When we left town, our previous therapist said falling back into a routine was the most important thing once we settled. It was hard enough getting him to go the first time, and with the baby I didn’t want him to become an excuse to not go back because we… we were doing really good, before.” Every lie did better when sprinkled with the truth, covering up the bitter taste. From what he saw, Mia ate every word and didn’t gag or wince.

           “Well…” She sighed, smoothing her hands down her sweater, “I guess I can squeeze you in. Come on.”

           Mia led them into the next room, leaving behind the non-descript lobby furniture and peeling yellow wallpaper for a cozier space. Sam scanned the area, noting pictures and degrees hanging on rogue-painted walls alongside other knick-knacks cluttering the space. Other than the door they entered from, the only exits Sam saw were twin windows covered by heavy drapes on either side of a dark fireplace and an unmarked door to the side. He made sure to stay wary of that door, in case uninvited guests might stroll in.

           Sam sat on the edge of a plush sectional, placing Jack beside him. Dean seized the chair nearest Sam, collapsing into it and leaving Mia with the last available chair across from them. They’re separated by a magazine-laden coffee table. “Pretty swanky duds you have here, doc,” Dean told her, poking one of the magazines, “must say I am disappointed there’s not any of those beds that they showed in the movies.”

           “Yes, well, I find a lot of how therapists and therapy is portrayed on film leaves much to be desired…” She shifted, throwing a leg over her knee and laying a notebook she pulled from elsewhere on her lap. “Among other things.” She spoke so quietly, Sam almost missed it. “Anyway,” she cleared her throat, “before we get into our session, I do want to mention that even though I am a therapist, my specialization is in helping patients overcome grief-related trauma relating to deaths of loved ones. Is that okay, Mr…?”

           “Just Sam is fine. And yeah, better than okay, actually,” Sam said, “What finally convinced my brother to finally start therapy is because we lost someone very close to us.” Dean visibly tensed, clawing at the chair’s arms with enough pressure Sam feared he might rip it. Distracted, Sam faltered halfway through his spiel. He recovered enough in his next breath to finish it. “Our mom… she passed.” Hearing about their mom caused Dean to relax considerably, into a familiar apprehension. Sam’s confusion, in response, deepened.

           “I’m sorry for you loss.” The perfunctory statement rolled off her tongue as expected. At least it sounded sincere. “How recently did she pass?”

           Sam grimaced. “Uh… a few months back?”

           “Although,” Dean chuckled, “it still feels like it was only yesterday.” His chest puffed up, goaded by the reproachful glance Sam shot his way. “What? It’s what I’m feeling. And ain’t that what therapy’s all about? Discussing what I’m feeling.”

           “Yes, it is.” Mia scribbled a quick note in her journal, frowning. “However, sharing your feelings is not mandatory.” Dean sunk into his seat, knees bumping against the coffee table. Mia jotted another line to her observations. She pointed at Jack with her pen, “And him? What’s his story?”

           “Jack?” Sam asked. He glanced at the baby, hand reflexively reaching for the carrier’s handle. He paused midway, instead slipping into it to pull Jack’s fist out of his mouth. “We took him in after a… a family friend passed during childbirth.”

           “That’s very unfortunate,” she nodded, “and… coincidental.”

           “Yeah, losing our moms around the same time isn’t the best of things to have in common but…” Sam bit his lower lip, confidence wavering on whether he should finish. The words teetered in his mind, rocking back and forth. He pressed on a side, tipping it over and into existence. “I mean, I guessed that was part of the reason we decided to look after him. I might not remember what it was like, growing up without a mom, but I knew it wasn’t easy for me” –

           “Excuse me,” Mia interrupted, drawing Sam away from Jack to her. He kept his thumb and forefinger looped around Jack’s wrist. “You didn’t grow up with your mom?”

           Sam winced, shrugging in response. He tried tagging Dean in, to help explain, but his brother had a faraway gleam in his eye that matched his childish pout. Sam realized he was on his own for now. “After I was born, she… she left,” Sam told her, “Without a trace one night. My dad he… it devastated him, broke him in some way that he couldn’t get past. Like, up until he died, he refused to believe she left him like that, by choice, and kept going on about how she died, and every day we were alive was for her, to do right by her. And because of this I only knew of our mom through stories he and, sometimes, Dean would share… but then one day Dean he… he happened to run into her.” He rubbed at his neck, head bowed so the fringe of his bangs shielded his eyes. “And she’s back in our lives. Just like that.”

           “How did that make you feel? Having her back?”

           “Weird,” he said, “There’s this woman who says that she’s my mom, and I believed it at first. But then, the more I learned about her, the less it felt like she and the mother I grew up with, the… the ghost of her, were the same person?”

           “It’s common for adults to have difficulty in reconciling the image of the mother in their heads with the person they actually are,” Mia said, “Kids take their parents for granted, a lot of times forgetting that they have a life outside of their children’s concerns, and this continues despite growing out of adolescence.”

           Dean huffed in agreement, “Ain’t that the truth.” Sam tamped down the urge to punch him, to make him behave.

           “So Sam,” Mia pointed with her pen, “did this disconnect affect how you processed your mother’s death?”

           “Uh…” He asked himself the same question. Sam’s brows dipped into a shallow grave above his head. “Maybe,” he answered her, “But not in the way you might think? Like… I missed her, back before, but I didn’t know her. Now I miss her but I… I got to know her? She’s more than my mother, to me. And that’s… I’m happy I got to know her before she died. Still, I feel a little guilty because why should I… she’s my mom, she died, and I shouldn’t be happy, should I?”

           “Have you considered that instead of happiness,” Mia says, “what you’re feeling is closure?”

           “Closure?”

           She planted both feet on the ground, now, bent forward as she expanded on her point. “Your mother was a mystery for most your life. A puzzle with most of the pieces missing. Then, she comes back and with her are those little pieces that complete the picture for you. Suddenly your mother isn’t much of a ghost or an ideal. She’s a person” –

           “So what?” Dean chimed in, “This was some cosmic joke, then? Have her kick up some dust long enough we form a connection with her, fill in a few blanks, and then poof? She’s no longer needed?”

           “It’s unfortunate what happened to your mother,” Mia stressed, good mood tempered by Dean’s outburst, “but comfort can be found in closure. My patients lost people in their lives suddenly, like you did, but there’s a gap in their healing because a lot of times there were words or feelings never expressed that they still clung to, that if they had a few more seconds, they would have gotten off their chests.” She turned to Sam, directing her next question at him. “Is there anything you think wasn’t said between you and your mother before she died?”

           He reflected. Sam parsed through the leaflet of memories he collected of him and his mother, wondering if, within them, there is a moment of regret where he bit his tongue when he shouldn’t have. There were none. “No, I don’t…” he mumbled, “I don’t think there was.” Sam’s lips curled into a tepid smile. “That’s weird.”

           “How so?”

           “I guess I’m not used to closure, is all,” he sighed, “for most of our lives, things and… and people – it all tends to be cut short. Usually, we’ve got to keep our heads up high and move on. Like with…” Sam trailed off, Eileen’s name caught in his teeth. He refused to let Eileen go and swallowed her name into the murky depths of his soul along with the other things he didn’t think about, where he stored everything that was in the way of doing his job. Because that’s what they’re here for, led there by Dean’s hunch. He couldn’t forget that. Mia’s stare burned on his profile, waiting for him to continue. He will be disappointing her. Jack’s tugging on his finger, sticking it in his mouth as he gummed it and guided Sam free from his stupor. Sam forced his mind to settle by wading into safer waters. “That might be another reason why we took Jack in. His mother… we knew how much she’d regret not being there for him. So by giving him a home, a family who will love him… I’m hoping it gives her comfort wherever she is. Or closure, as you might put it.”

           “God,” Dean groaned, slamming his head on the chair’s backboard, “If I have to hear that word one more time, I swear I’m gonna scream.”

           Mia’s journal was open again and rapidly taking notes, her attention diverted towards Dean. “I’m guessing that’s not how you’re feeling about all this, then?”

           “Like what? Like everything’s wrapped up in a neat little bow?”

           “If that’s how you wish to describe it.”

           “Well it’s not,” Dean spat, “It’s a big mess of string that’s tangled with no hope of ever being untangled! In fact, it’s like the more effort we go into untangling it, the messier it gets, and the larger it gets, spreading past us and mucking up everyone else in our lives!”

           Mia didn’t seem fazed by Dean’s tantrum, and Sam wondered if she truly is a monster like Dean suspected. If Sam were in her place, he wouldn’t know how he’d have maintained composure when dealing with his brother acting like a damned ass. There’d be blood splattered everywhere by now. “In my professional experience, many times we believe we’re ‘untangling’ the mess in our lives… it’s actually the opposite.”

           “You saying I did this to myself?”

           “What I’m saying is that… messes in our lives happen because of misunderstandings and miscommunication. We assume something about another person and act according to these assumptions, only to find out those were wrong, and we dig a bigger hole for ourselves. We lie because we believe it’s easier than the truth, and we hold in things we think don’t need to be said because there’s a misbelief they might not matter.”

           “Trust me, doc, things were definitely said,” Dean seethed, crossing his arms. He broke their staring contest, Sam surprised at the momentary flash of hurt that radiated from Dean’s gaze. Dean smothered it immediately, returning with hardened steel. “And maybe things that weren’t said were that way for a good reason, to not rock the boat… or mess up something that was already better than I thought I could have…” He blanched, face paling in realization of what, Sam guessed, he hadn’t meant to say. With this new awareness, Dean won’t give more than he already had. He stayed as he is, frozen in stubbornness.

           Sam wished he would. His forehead pounded, the beat of his heart loud in his eardrums. It didn’t sound like Dean was talking about their mother, but he can’t exactly name who Dean meant with his latest revelation.

           Mia had the same inklings. She’s better prepared, and perfectly distanced, to needle him about it. “Are you dealing with more than your mother’s loss?” she asked, “Did you lose someone else? Or… were you close with Jack’s mother, before she passed?”

           Dean deflated, anger whooshing out of him like a burst balloon. “It’s nothing.”

           “Because if there is something you wish to say, to someone,” Mia says, “I do have methods and exercises you can try that will help you work through these feelings” –

           “I said it’s nothing, okay?” He stood, body rigid and tense like a taut bowstring. “I think we’re done here.”

           Sam rose, too, ready to disagree. The thin press of Dean’s mouth warned Sam he shouldn’t argue. He accepted an early defeat, but in his own way. “Thank you, Doctor Vallens,” he said, offering his hand to her, “I’m sorry about my brother and his… assness, but this was a great session.”

           “I’m used to people like him,” she said, accepting the gesture and pumping his hand twice. Mia moved onto Dean. She’s the bigger person, holding her hand out for a handshake. “If you weren’t too put off by my methods, maybe we can work on what’s bothering you in another session?”

           Dean smiled, seizing her hand. “Trust me, I’m capable of finding that on my own.”

           Mia shouted, reeling backwards. In her haste she drops her journal, too concerned with touching the red welt burning on her hand. “What did you” –

           “Silver bullet,” Dean said, wiggling the ammunition. He uncovered his gun and loaded the bullet back inside it. “Only silver thing I had on me that you wouldn’t notice.” Dean shifted his stance, holding tight to his gun’s handle with a finger hovering near the trigger. “Though I bet you’ll notice it better after I’ve blasted it into your skull.”

           “No, no!” Mia pleaded, stumbling behind her chair, building distance between her and Dean, “You don’t have to do this!”

           “Oh, I think I do,” Dean growled, advancing, “otherwise you’ll just keep going on killing.”

           “What? I’m not – I haven’t killed anyone!”

           “Right, like I’m supposed to believe that.”

           He might not, but Sam did. He leapt between them, quickly disarming Dean. Sam twisted Dean’s wrist until he dropped the gun into Sam’s waiting hand. “Stop it.”

           “What the hell?” Dean yelled at him, massaging his sore wrist, “Sam, what do you even think you’re doing?”

           “Hearing her out,” he said. Sam, on instinct, glanced behind himself at Mia. She hadn’t run. She didn’t flinch when their eyes locked. As they did, Sam saw an apprehensive trust hidden within her eyes. Sam wouldn’t comment on it, to try and ease her fear. He was still a hunter. He still had the gun. His opinion might change, and she might need to spring into defensive mode again when Sam levelled the weapon at her. “You’re not human,” Sam pointed out what’s already obvious.

           Her shoulders tensed. Mia straightened to her full height; her expression now free of any earlier fear. “I’m not.”

           “What are you?”

           “A shifter.”

           “Are you actually a therapist?” Dean asked, an incredulous lilt to his tone. He jerked his thumb at the wall of degrees Sam noticed before. “Or did you shift into this poor doctor’s life after you killed her.”

           “Yes, I am a therapist,” she told them, palpable anger coloring her tone. Dean finally struck a nerve. “These are all mine… went to a lot of trouble getting them. But I did my time, like everyone else.”

           “Except you’re not like everyone else,” Dean said, “are you?” Mia’s lips flattened into a tight line, a refusal to answer. Dean continued, not expecting her to. “Okay, can we shoot her now?”

           “Shut up, Dean.” Sam snapped the safety of the gun on, then tucked it inside his waistband. He directed his next question to Mia, “Do you know why we’re here?”

           “I guess therapy was a cover?” she scoffed, stepping out of her hiding spot. Sam nodded. Mia chuckled low in her throat, shaking her head. “Of course… dammit I should have – I should have known what you were from the moment you walked in… And I didn’t think there’d be any harm in one last session before I left town altogether” –

           “Leaving town?” Dean jumped onto that last statement, clinging to it, “Only guilty people leave, y’know.”

           “This isn’t my fault. Those deaths, they weren’t my fault,” she argued, “I’m a victim in this as much as they are.”

           “Sure, right…” Dean angled his head away from Mia, muttering in Sam’s ear, “Seems like she knows about the deaths, and she’s a shifter. If you keep distracting her, I can sneak the gun out of your pocket and –“

           “No, Dean.”

           “What the hell is wrong with you?”

           “I could ask you the same thing.” A hot wave of fury blistered Dean’s face, transforming the terrain and leaving a barren, ashen wasteland in its trail. Dean stormed away from him but didn’t move far. He hovered by the door to the lobby, fiddling with a wooden statue. Sam let him. That he remained in the room spoke more to his willingness of hearing Mia’s story than anything he’s said this past hour. Sam turned to her, “You were aware of the deaths in town?”

           “They were my patients,” she said, “They’re always my patients.”

           “Always?” Sam asked, “Has this happened before?”

           “In about every town I moved to in the past two years.” Mia sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she wandered towards the fireplace. He watched her grab a box of cigarettes and a lighter from atop it. “Mind if I?”

           Sam thought of Jack, about his little lungs. He almost denied her, except Dean cut in and shrugged, “Sure, why not.” Sam glared at him, nodding his head at the carrier. “What? It’s not like it’ll do any damage to him.” He hated that he’s right. Sam silently gestured his assent to Mia.

           “Thanks.”

           “So,” he said as she lit the cigarette and took a long drag off it, “you set up shop in a town, and at some point… your patients start dying and you have to move?”

           “For my patient’s safety,” she explained, “For my safety. From people like you, and… and him.”

           “Him?” Sam asks, “Who’s him?”

           “My ex, Buddy, that’s who.” She tapped cigarette ash into the fireplace, leaning against it as she told her story. “Another shifter I was dating. He was a nice guy, at first, and, well… it’s not like there are a lot of options when you have to peel off your skin every few hours. Besides my mom, he was the only other shifter I ever knew. We started dating during my graduate program and he… he seemed so supportive. Things changed when I actually started practicing.” Mia began pacing in front of the fireplace now, hand holding the cigarette bouncing with every step. “He started complaining that I never had time for him anymore, that I was letting my hobby push him out of my life, and I was caring more for my patients then our safety.”

           “Why would he say that?”

           “Because he was jealous,” she said. Then, briefly, a sheepishness tints her cheeks. “Also, I might have been using my abilities while practicing?”

           Sam’s uneasiness swiftly returned. “What does that mean?”

           “I told you, how a lot of my patients have things and feelings they wished they’d shared with people who were no longer with them. Sometimes… after I noticed how talking about it or grief journaling could only do so much I – I shifted. Became the person who died, but only so that my patients could unburden themselves of what they carried, that’s all.”

           “Right,” Dean chuckled, “and people bought that, no questions asked?”

           “There’s nothing someone won’t believe if it meant a few more seconds with someone they loved.”

           That shut Dean down better than anything she said all afternoon. Sam didn’t worry too much about his brother’s weighty silence, however, pressing her further for information. “Your ex didn’t appreciate that?”

           “No. Our fighting got so bad, I had to break things off. He was getting… violent. A few days later, the first death happened…” She sucked on the cigarette a final time, discarding it into the soot-covered fireplace beside her. “Since then it’s been the same thing over and over. I leave, find somewhere new to practice, he somehow finds me, then finds out who my patients are, and kills them until I start this fucked-up process over again.”

           “Hey,” Sam motioned to the baby carrier, whispering, “Language.”

           “…Sorry.”

           A silence dragged out in the room as Sam digested her story. He considered it from every angle, taking great pains to ensure his instincts weren’t wrong. That Mia told them the truth, and the real monster was somewhere skulking around town, searching for his next kill. Sam was almost convinced. Something did trouble him, though, keeping him from fully believing her. “It said in the police reports that both victims were killed by people who looked like their dead loved ones… how would Buddy’ve known who they were, let alone who to shift into?”

           “I… I don’t know,” Mia said, “I never knew how he found me… he always… I did my best, staying off social media. I don’t even have a damned website for my practice, or a LinkedIn page!”

           Dean snorted, finally rejoining the conversation, “Maybe he tried doing what we did and played your heartstrings like a fiddle.”

           Sam could kick him for that remark, for it being rude and, unfortunately, being completely plausible. He asked Mia, “Could he?”

           “I…” Mia sighed, rubbing a tired hand across her face, “I want to say no, that I wouldn’t be that much of a fool to do that, but… you two made it work.”

           “Okay,” Sam smiled, “that’s a start. Is there anyone who you’re close to that he might’ve taken the form of? Friends? Coworkers?”

           Mia shook her head, “The only people I speak to on a regular basis are my patients, and I’m the only doctor who works here since I, well… also live here, too.”

           “So that front desk out there?” Dean said, scoffing, “that for show? Or do you find time to shift, shrink, and answer calls?”

           “Oh, no, I have an assistant,” Mia told them. Sam shared a glance with Dean, the same idea building within Sam’s mind reflected in his brother’s eyes. Mia interrupted their silent communication, “No, no, it can’t be Jim.”

           “How sure can you be?”

           “He’s on vacation, right now.”

           Dean chuckled, “Because that’s a bulletproof alibi…”

           “How about this then,” she huffed, smirking, slowly approaching him. “I drove him and his boyfriend to the airport because he didn’t want to leave his car in the parking lot for the next two weeks.” Dean deflated, blanching uncomfortably at her words. He ended their contest, stiffly shifting, facing the wall. She further encroached upon his personal space, “How’s that for an alibi?”

           Dean pinched his red ears, mumbling, “…Seems pretty airtight.”

           Sam, once more, ignored Dean’s strange behavior in favor of continuing his line of questioning. “If it’s not your assistant then it has to be a patient. Is there anyone you’ve seen lately who might have been… off? Maybe they were acting differently than you might remember?”

           “Not that I can say, off the top of my head.”

           “Okay…” Sam said, “Do you have notes that we can look at – if, if that’s not an invasion of privacy, or whatever? Maybe we can establish a pattern or – or see whether there’s differences between sessions based on what you wrote?”

           Mia shook her head, squeezing her elbows as she turned from him. “That’d be a serious invasion of privacy I can’t allow, even if I thought it’d be of any help.” Sam hummed a sour note, tearing a page out his mental notebook as he scrapped another idea. Before he returned to the drawing board, Mia gasped and spun back around. “But,” she continued, “I do have something I think will help. Follow me.” Mia brushed past Sam, heading into the lobby.

           Sam trailed behind her, Dean, too, judging from his footsteps. He paused in the doorway, however, remembering Jack and how he shouldn’t leave him alone. As he was about to double back, he bumped into Dean who hissed, “watch out” while shoving him off. Sam’s gaze dipped low, then, hearing a familiar giggle. Jack beamed up at Sam from his carrier; it gently swinging, held in Dean’s hand. Sam glanced at Dean, his older brother knowing well to avoid the other’s gaze. “What?” Dean mumbled, “Shouldn’t we see what Mia’s doing? For all we know, she’s out the door while we dawdle here…”

           Sam surrendered without a fight here, too. He chose his battles and could see how meaningless it’d be to press now. He filed this away, though, to use for a later date.

           They huddled around Mia in the lobby, at the front desk. She clicked through different tabs on her assistant’s computer. “A while back, we had these teens break in and mess the place up searching for cash, or whatever. I didn’t press any charges – nothing was stolen, and all I had to replace was a window and a few magazines – but Jim didn’t want to come back to work unless I installed some type of security system. I didn’t want to hire someone new so… I caved and got cameras. I never usually bother with them, since they’d do me more harm than good. But given all of us know what’s what…”

           “We can use the cameras to figure out which one of your patients is your ex,” Sam finished her thought, laughing, “that’s perfect!” Both Mia and Dean stared at him with twin, strange expressions on their faces. He cleared his throat, “…Sorry.”

           They lapsed into an anxious silence after. Even Jack fell into a quiet lull, entertained by the pacifier Dean stuffed into his mouth when he set him on the desk. Although his focus, like theirs, was trained on the screen. Together, they watched people – regular people, given how their eyes didn’t flare – walk in and out of frame for longer than Sam would have liked. When it seemed as if they hit another dead end, Sam saw Dean storm into view. “This is us,” he said, Sam’s own figure appearing at the same time the man from earlier had.

           Jack clapped his hands, the pacifier spat from his mouth. Almost like the raspberries he blew at the other man. The stranger craned his neck to smile at Jack, giving the camera a clear view of his face.

           A view of his glowing eyes, too.

           “Him,” Sam tapped the screen, “Who is he?”

           “Travis?” Mia sighed, running a tired hand across her face. “Travis Hodgins. He’s someone I’ve been seeing since… since I started my practice. Lost his daughter to cancer, and his marriage to the grief of it. He was… he was getting better…”

           Sam offered her condolences that Mia shrugged off. “Do you know where he lives?” he asked instead.

           “Yeah, it’s not that far from here…”

           Sam looked at Dean, “You want to check it out?”

           “Alone?”

           “Someone has to stay here, in case Buddy comes back,” Sam said, “besides, if he is there, just text me and I’ll find my way to you.”

           Dean didn’t appear too pleased with the orders, but like the soldier he was raised to be, Dean listened regardless. Sam handed Dean his gun and muttered a few quick words of encouragement his brother rebuffed.

           Soon, it was Mia, Sam, and Jack in the lobby, the sun having set some time ago and casting the room into an eerie darkness. They returned to the warmer light of her other room and its many lamps, Mia readying another cigarette while Sam dug through the baby bag for a bottle of milk. He settled beside the carrier, helping Jack onto his lap to better feed him.

           Mia’s shadow stretched over him. She stood behind the couch, nodding at Jack. “Is what you said about him true?” she asked, “Or did you borrow him for the ruse?”

           “He’s ours…” Sam sank into the couch, tilting his head to better meet her guarded stare. “We didn’t know his mom that well, but we were all he had after…” He trailed off, unsure how much he should share. Mia didn’t need to hear the specifics. “After this big… this big blow-out. Cost us his mom… our mom… a few friends” –

           “So you did lose your mom?” she asked, “That wasn’t fake, too?”

           “No…” Sam shifted, discarding the empty bottle on the nearby coffee table. “She died a few days ago, actually.”

           Mia hissed, a harsh cloud of smoke drifting past the space of her clenched teeth. “And you’re here? I heard hunters had to have hard hearts for the job, but that sounds brutal even for me…”

           “It wasn’t my idea to come here,” Sam confessed, “Dean… he kinda hijacked our trip back home. I didn’t like it, but I get it – in a way. He’s coping.”

           “Poorly.”

           “There’re worse things he could be doing, like drinking,” Sam defended his brother, “at least he’s trying to get back to normal. We both are.”

           Mia shrugged in response, drifting towards the fireplace to dump her second cigarette. Sam didn’t mind, busying himself with burping Jack. They existed separately in this space, lost in their own thoughts. Although Sam found himself wanting to reengage with Mia, continuing their conversation so he might better explain their situation. His stomach twisted itself in knots, like he ate bad gas station food, because he felt like she misunderstood him. It was stupid. It was completely unnecessary. It shouldn’t matter what her opinion of them was.

           “It’s not healthy,” he started, slowly rocking Jack in his carrier. Sam watched the little boy as his eyes began to droop, instead of Mia. “You’re right. The fact that Dean and I are still hunting, after everything that’s happened to us – all we lost, all we’ve bled because of the job – we’re insane for waking up the next day and carrying on. But it’s all we know. Our whole lives have been about the hunt. We’ve tried to walk away from it… and it works for a little bit… but somehow we always find ourselves back in the thick of it.” He swallows around a terrifying lump in his throat, of a secret held he never spoke of. “When I was younger, there was nothing I wanted more than to not be a hunter. Now… I don’t see myself doing anything else. This is what I’m supposed to be doing.”

           “And your brother?” Mia asked, “Is this what he wants?”

           Sam, used to speaking for his brother, especially tonight, was at a loss for words. He struggled piecing together an answer. It went down like expired milk. “He’s never said anything to make me doubt otherwise.”

           “I believe that,” she scoffed, “Dean doesn’t seem the chatty type.”

           There’s another half-formed defense waiting in Sam’s arsenal, but his ringing phone reminded Sam where his priorities should be. He answered, “What?”

           “House is empty.”

           “It is?”

           “Except for the rotting corpse of Mr. Hodgins,” he said, “but I don’t think he should count.”

           Sam cursed, bolting upright from his seat. “If he’s not there,” he mumbled, pacing, “then where is he?”

           He heard the gun click before he saw it, felt the cold muzzle of it knock into his head, right above his ear. Mia gasped where she stood, and Dean kept repeating Sam’s name like a siren. Sam glanced to the side, seeing the man from earlier holding the gun. “Put that down,” Buddy ordered, punctuating his threat by shoving the gun even closer.

           Sam nodded, hitting speaker and placing the phone next to Jack’s carrier. As he did, he said, “You roll in from funkytown or something?”

           “Real funny, scumbag,” Buddy chuckled, “why don’t you go and stand next to the bitch who thinks she’s a doctor?” He made it halfway towards Mia when he heard Buddy cluck his tongue at him. “Hold it.” Sam waited, scowling as Buddy’s hand traveled his body, stopping only as he felt the oblong shape of Sam’s gun tucked inside his jacket. Buddy relieved Sam of his weapon, taunting him with it, dangling it in front of his face before dropping it. He kicked Sam’s ass, making him stumble on his path to Mia. “Now get!”

           Buddy hurriedly swarmed he and Mia, crowding them further against the fireplace. The gun wavered. Not enough Sam might risk retaliating, but every few seconds it left him and was trained on Mia. “Look how far you’ve sunken, baby,” Buddy purred, stroking Mia’s chin with the gun, “teaming with hunters? I knew you were a traitor, but I didn’t realize it had gotten this bad.”

           “If anyone’s the traitor, it’s you, Buddy,” Mia said, “breaking my heart. Making me think you were some kind of good guy and not the scuzz you really were.”

           He whipped her hard, the crack reverberating and making Sam’s nerves shake. Blood spurted out of Mia’s nose. She wiped it as she recovered, panting. “You wanna say that again?” Buddy asked.

           Mia bit her tongue, protest visible in her eyes. Buddy readied another blow, but stopped midway when Jack interrupted with a healthy cry. “Well fuck,” he said, as if noticing Jack for the first time, “you’ve done and woke up the baby… happy?”

           “Stop it,” Sam warned, “Don’t you dare go near him.”

           “Or what?” He laughed, inching away from them to where Jack was. “Y’know… I thought hunters had a little more sense than bringing babies on a hunt.” Buddy said. In response, Jack’s voice rose to a pitch that made Sam wince. “Dammit!” Buddy growled, stomping closer to Jack, crouching in front of him. Buddy shook the carrier, “Can you stop that! Can you shut up!” He pointed the gun at Jack, “I swear, if you aren’t quiet in the next second” –

           Sam grabbed the poker almost immediately, slamming it into Buddy with his next breath, powered by adrenaline and instinct. He dropped his weapon to hurl himself at Buddy, next, knocking both them and the couch over. Sam heard the gun fly out of Buddy’s hand, and he punched and punched the other shifter to keep it that way.

           Buddy, anticipating his plan, recovered enough between punches that he dodged one and managed to knock Sam off of him. Sam heard him scramble to his feet, searching for his weapon. Fear, familiar and slick, trickled down his back in millions of droplets of sweat. His mind jolted, quickly, working up an idea that might buy them a few more minutes for Dean to arrive.

           Mia delivered when he couldn’t. “Sam!” she said, drawing his attention. She held his gun and, without saying anything else, she tossed it to him. Sam caught it easily. He aimed for Buddy.

           Except Buddy already had his gun pointed at Sam. “So long, hunter.” Buddy’s finger squeezed the trigger and it fired, the gunshot overpowering Jack’s persistent crying.

           Sam braced for the bullet, wincing preemptively. Instead of his life flashing, all Sam saw was what would happen after. Dean arriving to see Sam failed at stalling Buddy, his lifeless body dripping blood alongside Mia’s and Jack’s, meaning Dean was well and truly alone in the world. Alone because of Sam.

           Except that never happened.

           Sam was still alive when he knew he should be bleeding out. He cracked one eye open, then the other, and noticed the bullet hovering in mid-air, frozen in its path. Suddenly, as if waiting for Sam’s attention, the bullet splintered and exploded into dust. The force from the explosion knocked Buddy backwards, his limp hand dropping the gun again.

           He wasted little time firing two bullets into Buddy’s chest, adding a third for good measure between the eyes.

           Panting, Sam whipped around to Mia. “Are you good?” he asked, advancing.

           Mia, mouth agape and eyes wide, startled free from her trance. “Yeah, yes… I’m good. I…” She never finished her thought, torn, looking at Buddy’s corpse, then to where the bullet exploded.

           Sam carried on and moved to Jack, stepping over the couch to reach him. As he did, he noticed the younger boy’s tantrum lessened since the height of the battle. He appeared tired, his cries weaker with each release. His cheeks were red, and his eyes –

           His eyes were bright gold.

           Sam nearly cursed, stopping himself at the last moment. He extended a hand to Jack, hovering near his face, thinking of the bullet and what Jack’s eyes meant.

           He didn’t dwell on it for long. Dean burst into the room, gun at the ready, his glare darting around the room. “Sam?” he asked, locking eyes with him from the doorway, “What the hell happened in here?”

           Sam didn’t know where he should start.

Tagged List:

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#supernatural #spn #spn13 #sam winchester #dean winchester #destiel #deancas #mia vallens #jack winchester #spn case fic #destiel fanfic #spn fanfic

[kiruuuuu]

More BB/Goyo in which Goyo is slowly going mad. On several accounts. (Rating E, fluff/humour/resolved sexual tension + smut, ~5.2k words) - written for @kiruuuuu​ seeing as she continued obsessing about these two after this piece.

.

Blackbeard is slowly but surely driving him insane.

One big part is the physical aspect, Goyo isn’t denying it – and if it were only that, he’d be as far from complaining as he could be. If his biggest problem was Blackbeard's attractiveness, he’d live in an almost ideal world with most of his dreams coming true, but as it is, the deep-seated desire burning low and slow in his groin merely ensures Goyo doesn’t forcibly eject Blackbeard from his life again due to all the other reasons the American is personally raising Goyo’s blood pressure. He should’ve expected this outcome and largely did, yet imagining having to combat vague incompatibilities while cruising high on happiness hormones which are released in laughable quantities every time he receives a friendly text over the holidays was somehow decidedly easier to stomach than dealing with actual issues face-to-face.

Goyo knows himself, as does Amaru, which is why he doesn’t disagree with her suggestion of meeting in public the first few times. He’s always been weakest right at the beginning of a fancy, daydreaming of scenarios that leave him short of breath and having to adjust his trousers, hoping they don’t betray him if he happens to be in a public space. Despite knowing better, he’s dived head first into physical relationships and paid the price for it, and after having slept with a married man once (without his knowledge, though the blame of hastiness lay upon him regardless), he vowed to improve. Besides, he suspects Blackbeard hasn’t dated a lot of men, so he should take it slow anyway.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t prepared for the change in wardrobe following a throwaway comment about camouflage patterns because not only did Blackbeard take him seriously and dressed differently for their dates from then on (which is a turn on already), his shirts are also very tight. Not unacceptably so, but entirely too tight for someone with pecs this pronounced. In moments when it was hard to deal with Blackbeard's personality, Goyo reminded himself as to why he was still around by eyeing up Blackbeard's chest and Christ. He would love to grope him for hours. Maybe suckle on those puppies. God.

It doesn’t help that he’s changed his aftershave as well. Goyo felt genuinely bad complaining about so much right away, even if it was done through careful euphemisms and half-jokes he practised beforehand, and promised himself to compliment Blackbeard elaborately should he act on it – but never did he expect for Blackbeard to dip into the nearest shop with him to try and find a fragrance Goyo liked. He claimed he was tired of his old one but hadn’t found an excuse to switch so far, and offered his own opinions additionally to Goyo’s, meaning the entire thing felt organic and constructive instead of passive-aggressive or, worse, blindly compliant. As a result, Goyo stands that tiny bit closer whenever he can. Prolongs their hugs. Inhales consciously whenever they kiss. He loves a good-smelling man, and Blackbeard has turned from handsome to painfully sexy.

He makes sure Blackbeard knows, too. He might be picky and demanding, but he would like to think of himself as appreciative, so whenever he notices the American looking or smelling exceptionally good, he remarks on it. And the delighted expressions he reaps are worth feeding this inflated ego. He doesn’t think the other man has been complimented on his appearance much, certainly not by fellow guys.

.

The very first thing they fight about is punctuality. As inevitable as death. It turns into a recurring theme as they simply can’t agree on anything and Goyo’s laid-back attitude towards time sparks nothing but disbelief in Blackbeard – he does learn by setting their meeting half an hour before he actually arrives, but whenever he’s meant to pick Goyo up by car, he shows up on the dot and paces impatiently around the flat without taking his shoes off while Goyo finishes whichever task held him up. Blackbeard calls him rude, Goyo waves him off, and the whole drama repeats the next time. They even have a long talk about it, with Goyo stressing the importance of enjoying life at one’s own personal pace, and Blackbeard calling on politeness and prioritising others over tasks such as washing the dishes.

Related to this, Blackbeard always requires an exact plan while Goyo prefers adapting vague ideas to actual circumstances. There’s no spontaneity in most of Blackbeard's actions, he’s rigid and inflexible and it drives Goyo absolutely nuts. After having agreed on watching a film that night, they walk past a fantastic-looking restaurant Goyo instantly wants to try out, and Blackbeard flat out refuses. Just says no. Claims their original plan was superior simply because it was made earlier, and when Goyo points out that literally nothing is stopping them from having dinner together instead of sitting at the cinema for a few hours, Blackbeard is having none of it. He’s hungry, he agrees with Goyo’s assessment that the place looks inviting, and yet he won’t budge. How did he get to where he is now with this attitude?

Also, Blackbeard is loud. And by this, he’s not even referring to his deafening voice – he’s a pitchman manqué – but rather his behaviour as a whole. Nigh everyone can tell his country of origin due to him constantly approaching perfect strangers, which Goyo finds exceedingly rude. People just want to mind their own business, as does he, and he wouldn’t appreciate being accosted by some random dude on the street. Blackbeard has the gall to call him rude as a result and defends himself by pointing out he leaves the grumpy ones alone and has a lovely chat with the rest who seems to enjoy their talk. Blackbeard has no qualms cursing in public and calling out unacceptable behaviour, and Goyo preferred the ground to swallow him whenever his companion starts an argument with a line skipper or someone parking like an idiot.

What, am I supposed to just tut and walk away?, Blackbeard scoffs, his tone making clear what he thinks of the British nation as a whole.

There are countless other details: Blackbeard's apartment is messy. He can’t cook for the life of him, yet is an utter baking snob. He leaves the toilet seat up. He loves the worst kind of cheesy patriotic action films and accepts no criticism on this. The music in his car leaves Goyo’s ears ringing for the rest of the evening. He seems to think kissing is the only worthwhile public display of affection. He’s ignorant about most other cultures yet fancies himself open-minded because his best friend is Korean – this only means he compares anything and everything either to the States or Korea. Getting him to eat anything he hasn’t tried before is an uphill struggle. Except if it’s Korean.

Vigil seems to get a pass on nearly everything, and Goyo is beginning to think Blackbeard either had or still has a crush on the man. He’s empathetic and understanding as can be with Vigil, and almost seems to enjoy arguing with Goyo. It’s getting old fast.

.

And then there are those other moments. The ones so sharp and vivid they linger in Goyo’s mind long after the fact, bright and warm like a sip of good alcohol, and almost as intoxicating too. They end up eating in the restaurant after all, and Goyo is mentally preparing for the backlash if it turns out to be rubbish – not that he thinks it will be, but he’d rather outline his defence already. In the back of his mind, he’s wondering whether he’s the stubborn one in this case, with his insistence to get his way showcasing his own inflexibility. His mother taught him to be kind whenever he can afford it, yet past experiences and an underlying pessimism usually convince him he can’t. He knows she’d be disappointed with how often he chooses the less compassionate path.

“I’m not good at this”, Blackbeard announces out of the blue, throwing Goyo off once more. This happens regularly, him spiralling and conducting a whole other conversation in his mind, and Blackbeard interrupting his thoughts with something outlandish. Most of the time, Goyo is relieved about it. He tends to get lost and is glad whenever he’s brought back to the present.

Since there’s no indication as to what he means, Goyo needs him to clarify. “At what?”

“Just… this.” And Blackbeard gestures somewhere between them. “Compromising. Letting someone else into my life. Listening.”

I know someone else who’s terrible at all three of those, Goyo thinks and doesn’t say.

“But I like you. And I want to get better. So please be patient with me and talk to me. Okay?”

Blackbeard likes him.

Idiotically, hearing it out loud makes him giddy as if this was a new revelation, but then his brain latches on to the much more important implication of Blackbeard wanting to communicate, being willing to work on himself and on the both of them, admitting faults. It’s a beacon of hope and one he didn’t expect – Blackbeard has never struck him as particularly introspective, not with how he values arbitrary rules above creative thinking, yet it seems he underestimated him. He’ll have to correct his mental image and allow Blackbeard to improve.

“Yes. That sounds good”, he replies after mulling over Blackbeard's words for a bit, prompting a sigh of relief. And, to throw him a bone: “You’re doing good.”

A scoff. “Am I though?”

“You are. Why else would I say it?”

“I don’t know. You just…” Blackbeard lowers his gaze, searching for the right thing to say. “I’m nervous around you.”

Goyo laughs. Can’t help it, he bursts out with a brief laugh turning into a hearty chuckle because – Blackbeard gets nervous? He dreaded being in the same room as the American early on and never managed to settle down in his presence, and now he’s learning it was reciprocal? Had he known he could’ve scared him away, he might’ve confronted Blackbeard earlier, returned the sass, threw his weight around a little. Instead, they were watching each other like hawks for ultimately only marginally different reasons. Nothing about Blackbeard is adorable, but this is the closest thing to it: him being bashful, admitting his crush, relinquishing power and inviting himself to be mocked. Goyo is delighted.

“You don’t need to be”, he reassures and runs his fingertips over the back of Blackbeard's hand, a gentle gesture he seems to appreciate.

There are these moments which remind Goyo why he gave Blackbeard a chance in the first place, and they are what keep him going whenever Blackbeard starts arguing in favour of one of his ‘life principles’.

.

“I made a mistake”, Goyo states, not bothering to hide his fatalistic tone of voice.

Amaru is instantly entertained. Her optimistic and easygoing attitude is part of the reason why she got along so swimmingly with Goyo’s mother, and also why he’s endlessly grateful for her presence in his life: she helped him get past failures whenever his mum wasn’t available, and provided encouragement and support whenever he needed it. It’s also why he keeps bothering her with his problems. “Does it have anything to do with your new relationship?”

She watched from a distance as he made his first few questionable choices in his dating career, ready to pick him up and dust him off whenever he’d fallen down. He learned to accept and value her advice once he realised she was never wrong, so he’s hoping she can assist him with his current predicament. “How did you guess?”, he sighs, not requiring an answer. “They’re showing a documentary I’m interested in on TV this evening, and I mentioned it to Craig.”

“So now he wants to watch it with you?”, his aunt surmises, making him nod. “Which means you’d have to spend the evening with him without falling victim to his manly wiles.” He nods again, looking pained. “And you want me to give you the go-ahead for making up an excuse so you don’t have a bad conscience when you cancel on him.”

Well. Maybe she was the wrong person to approach about this. “When you put it like that, it sounds… bad.”

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Don Goyo, you’re old enough to not need my approval. Which you’re not going to get anyway, before you ask.”

“I have a feeling I know what you’re about to say to me.”

“Just tell him. If you’re not ready, he needs to know. He deserves to know, César.”

It’s not that he isn’t ready. If it was for him, they’d have fucked in the nearest public stall on their second date, he’s been dreaming about strong arms and an insistent tongue for almost the entire month that they’ve been dating. He’s overripe, and still – it doesn’t feel right somehow. Like he should wait a little longer. They’ve gotten to know each other much better, anticipating each other’s moods, making small gifts here and there and texting daily. Even so, there’s just something.

“Don’t brood. Go and talk to him. Either he respects your boundaries and everything’s good, or he refuses and you can launch him into outer space. No matter the outcome, you’ll be off better than before.”

She must sense his hesitation as she tries to instil her wisdom a few more times before giving up and wishing him a pleasant night. He leaves, conflicted – he doesn’t want to hurt Blackbeard's feelings by rejecting him before even anything happens, and at the same time he’s not comfortable actually reaching below the belt yet.

He’s hoping Blackbeard simply doesn’t try anything. It’s the best case scenario.

.

About eight hours later, all Goyo can think between different versions of God this feels so fucking good is: this didn’t go to plan at all. Blackbeard is buried up to the hilt and Goyo is grateful for being momentarily distracted so he has an excuse not to think critically about what’s happening right then.

And it started out so well.

Goyo arrives only fifteen minutes late, which he thinks is more than reasonable even if Blackbeard doesn’t comment on it, and takes note of the slightly less messy flat – it’s not even that bad normally, some dirty dishes scattered around and pieces of clothing, but at least they give the otherwise relatively barren apartment some character. They kiss as a greeting, briefly, as Blackbeard is busy heating up something to eat, and then sit on the couch with plates on their laps, chatting about their day while waiting for the program to start.

It’s domestic. It should be relaxing and pleasant, not nerve-wracking, but after sitting next to Blackbeard for ten minutes of serious introduction and noticing how his sweatpants don’t really do a good job at hiding anything, Goyo knows he won’t do anything to stop him should he make a move. In a way, it’d be a relief: get it over and done with, don’t dwell on it, move on. The anticipation is putting him on edge, keeps his hairs standing up and his breaths measured. He’s hyper-aware of his knee brushing against Blackbeard's, the broad chest next to him rising and falling, the thumping of his own heart.

He can’t concentrate. Images flash on the screen, a soothing narrator recounts past horrors in a deep voice and historical photographs take turns. He’d actually been looking forward to watching this programme, and should’ve known doing it together with Blackbeard would end in disaster, yet wasn’t prepared for himself being the culprit. Blackbeard has beautiful arms, oozing latent strength and tanned nicely, the dark hairs making them even more appealing. Maybe he doesn’t shave his chest. He probably doesn’t, would consider it unmanly, and with how lush and full his beard is -

“Can I get you a beer?”

Goyo blinks. It’s a commercial break, he hadn’t even noticed. “No”, he says, and thinks: and I’d rather you didn’t have one either. The taste of it is revolting to him.

“I’ll just get one for myself then”, Blackbeard replies, already risen from the sofa, and makes the mistake of leaning down for a quick, once again domestic kiss. It’s reciprocated just a tad too enthusiastically, so Blackbeard pushes back and after a few more seconds they’re tongue wrestling with an uncomfortable height difference between them. The angle is awkward but the feel of it amazing – and this is something Goyo has openly admitted numerous times: he loves the way Blackbeard kisses. Adores it. Can’t get enough of it. It’s intense and deep and wet and leaves him panting every time, with this being no exception.

He drags the other man in, forcing him to steady himself with one knee on the couch, one knee right between Goyo’s legs and both hands cupping his face. This, too, is shockingly sexy, the way Blackbeard keeps him in place to take him apart. Goyo reaches out and runs his fingers over Blackbeard's body and dear God his thighs are like stone, and his back muscles pronounced, and his abs too. He’s tilted far back now, the bear hovering over him, solid and threatening and like a rock set in motion. Soul-crushing. Inevitable.

They kiss until the break is over, until at least one of them is making these embarrassing little noises, until Goyo’s lips feel swollen and his cock is harder than it’s ever been in his life, until Blackbeard breaks off, flushed, sweating and dishevelled, and Goyo wants to suck his dick or he’ll die. Making out has always been Goyo’s weakspot, and making out like this is guaranteed to leave him weeping and ruining his underwear, and he knew Blackbeard was gonna try something. He just knew. They wouldn’t have snogged like this without purpose, without an ulterior motive, without the intention of moving on to more sinful things now.

“We should”, Blackbeard starts and has trouble focusing his gaze, “let’s – I mean -” His sweatpants really don’t let him get away with anything. Unbelievably, he disengages and plops down next to Goyo. Apparently he wants to keep watching, which is the sensible thing to do.

Yes. A good idea. Getting caught up in the moment isn’t what Goyo wants anyway.

Blackbeard is radiating heat. His confident persona has crumbled, revealing a passionate yet considerate lover, a man torn between doing the right thing and doing what feels right. Right now, his upper brain seems to be winning, or maybe he figures if he behaves, Goyo will reward him regardless, or he’s hoping Goyo will stay the night and they can fuck later, or he’s playing hard-to-get. The last option would be hilarious, since Goyo isn’t interested in buying what Blackbeard is selling for now. They should really go back to watching TV, and when it’s over, they can talk a little, and then Goyo’s going home.

Two minutes later, he’s straddling Blackbeard's lap while shoving his tongue so far down the other man’s throat it’s a miracle he’s not choking, and nearly coming in his own pants from the bit of friction he manages to get between his dick and Blackbeard's taut stomach. He’s a fucking magnet and an oven with how hot he is, mewling into the kiss like someone who’s desperate for any kind of attention, like a starving or drowning or poisoned man, like – like Goyo. His beard is soft and smells good, and when Goyo’s hands stray below fabric, he finds more hair on a broad chest and buries his fingers in it. The rugged edge Blackbeard visibly sports continues where the normal gaze doesn’t penetrate, Goyo is relieved to discover, and he can finally feel up these gorgeous tits. Get his hands on them and massage them however he likes.

His nipples are delightfully sensitive and Goyo spends too much time teasing them while sucking deep purple bruises just below Blackbeard's collar until he’s worried about Blackbeard exploding under his merciless ministrations. Frotting has been knocked down in priority now that he can twist strangled moans out of the hard body beneath him, but when his cock throbs almost painfully at a gasp, he knows they can’t go on like this.

“Please give me a moment”, Blackbeard gasps out, cheeks rosy and eyes unfocused.

Again, a reasonable request. He should listen.

“Bedroom”, he snaps and it’s not even a suggestion. He can feel his hole pulsing with the irresistible desire of getting plowed and when Blackbeard, after a second of disbelief, picks him up to carry him through the flat, Goyo is thankful for his foresight to bring condoms and lube regardless of his intentions. He had a hunch Blackbeard would try something.

They only shed what’s necessary (and the shapely legs are somehow only improved with socks on, but Goyo has been told before that it’s a sock fetish at this point) and preparation is an unceremonious affair except for the fact that Goyo sucks on Blackbeard's nipples until they’re raw and too sensitive while fingering himself open. The American has a great body, he has to admit, well-developed muscles, some scars here and there, coarse black hair adorning tanned skin and an upward curved cock beautiful enough to have Goyo’s mouth water, so sitting down on it feels predictably mind-blowing.

He does most of the work, which is fortunate as he can experiment with angles until he’s found one that actually makes him go cross-eyed, and once Blackbeard draws the connection between his blissful groans and whatever’s happening between their legs, he starts thrusting up and dear Lord.

This isn’t what Goyo had in mind when coming over, and yet he can’t find the brain capacity to regret or even care right now, not with how urgent his lust is tugging on his nerve endings, forcing him to ride towards exhaustion and cramps and an impressive muscle hangover the next day. Being able to steady himself on Blackbeard's torso is surprisingly sexy and the sheer barrage of pleasure bursting through him every time he slams down his hips keeps him from touching himself, effectively prolonging his sweet suffering.

Moving in unison has never felt this good and for once, they’re on the same wavelength, exchanging devoted gazes and trading the odd kiss. It’s akin to a reunion instead of a first time, like they’ve rehearsed this song and dance to perfection in the past and, despite a certain rustiness, are quickly finding back into their old routine.

When Goyo comes, his vision goes colourful with how tight he’s squeezing his eyelids shut. He shakes violently while balanced on Blackbeard's hips and gasps for air, overwhelmed by the elation accompanying his release and shooting his sperm all over Blackbeard's mangled chest, over the lovebites and the red marks his hands left behind from carrying his weight. His relief is crushing, and so he slumps down bonelessly, allowing the other man to pump into him a few more times before announcing his own climax with a low moan. Instinctively, it seems, Blackbeard’s palms travel over the back of his sweaty t-shirt, petting him reassuringly.

Goyo doesn’t like it. It feels like too much, like overstimulation after a long, satisfying session even though his was hardly long but certainly satisfying. He shakes the hands off and climbs down, trying to catch his breath. Next to him, blue eyes snap to his face, too attentive. Blackbeard looks like he’s not sure what to say. Goyo could lighten the situation, compliment him, make a joke, or be sincere about how much he enjoyed himself. Because he did.

Even with the afterglow fading fast.

“I’ll go shower first”, he announces and leaves with a quick kiss that seems unsubstantial. He’s gone before Blackbeard has even taken the condom off, and the sensation of dirtiness clinging to his skin seems to go beyond bodily fluids. Scrubbing himself with the only loofah (and isn’t that a surprise) wouldn’t be right, so he uses his own fingers to wipe off the odd feeling.

Blackbeard is sitting on the edge of the bed when he returns, and now he can finally place the source of the awkwardness between them: he’s not babbling. Normally, he’d have commented on Goyo’s stamina, maybe how great his arse looked, recounted an anecdote of some sorts, or even attempted a lame joke, yet all he’s doing is watching. He looks a little lost. Silvery droplets are caught in his chest hair and when they kiss again, Goyo deflects a hug with the excuse of wanting to remain clean, demands that Blackbeard go shower as well.

The bed is large and tidier than the rest of the room, as if Blackbeard had anticipated them ending up here. Despite the general lack of colour in the apartment, the duvet is beautiful with a dark turquoise pattern. The cushions look fluffy, but not too soft. It looks inviting. Goyo did bring a spare pair of underwear, knowing their shoe and therefore sock size is the same, and he briefly pictures waking Blackbeard up by sucking him off. It’s unlikely to happen, with how different their morning routines are – what little he knows anyway – and still, the image is most tempting.

He gets caught in the hallway with one shoe on his foot already, the other in his hands.

His stomach drops and speech evades him out of shame as Blackbeard leans against the door frame, tight briefs highlighting all his best assets. Oddly enough, he doesn’t seem disappointed or hurt, which does nothing to quell the burning feeling of being a disgrace eating away at Goyo’s insides.

“What are you doing?”, he asks, no reproach in his voice. Patience is one of his virtues and one he displays right now – if there was ever a moment when Goyo expected an outburst, an indignant rant, it’d be now. Instead, he picks up on a hesitant disquiet, an uneasy curiosity. Blackbeard doesn’t know what’s going on, but he knows it’s important, therefore he treats it with the same mindfulness he does any serious issue.

Goyo owes him this. If there’s anything he owes this man, it’s an attempt at an explanation. Since he’s formulated it before, talked it through with past partners, he’s not unprepared yet dreads bringing it up nonetheless. “I have… commitment issues”, he replies softly.

The answering silence is one of racing thoughts, he can read it on Blackbeard's open expression. “Do you want to talk about it?”, he eventually wants to know. For a guy with no idea of how to deal with this, he’s faring remarkably well.

“I am talking about it.” Defensive. He inhales deeply before continuing. “I have trouble opening up to others. I prefer keeping most of me to myself. I can’t trust easily.”

A nod. It hurts; it means Blackbeard has noticed but didn’t dare bring it up. Always the same thing. Goyo fights down a pang of annoyance – part of his mind tries to convince him they don’t deserve him: either they mention it, which makes them whiny complainers not ready to give him time, or they don’t, which means they don’t care enough. It’s bullshit and pops up in the back of his head every time. “Am I suffocating you?”

He almost laughs at the ridiculousness of the notion. Blackbeard, who maybe suggests a quarter of their dates, who never complains about Goyo taking some time to reply to messages, who always accepts when Goyo wants to go home, seriously thinks he’s clingy. If anything, Goyo would like for him to be more overbearing, insert himself into Goyo’s life more aggressively. “No. You’re giving me all the space I need.” Too much, at times.

“Am I doing anything wrong?”

Well. What isn’t he doing wrong. Goyo’s heart melts a little over this brute trying to figure out why his lover is sneaking out on him, when it’s nothing but Goyo’s ugly side finally showing. He’s being unfair. “I didn’t want to sleep with you”, he says and knows instantly it was the worst possible thing he could’ve said, with how Blackbeard gains a look of horror, paling immediately, arms dropping by his side, slack, mouth working out an apology before the meaning has even reached his brain. Bad with words. This one he can’t really chalk up to bad timing. “No, that’s not what I meant. I wanted it and I liked it. I really did.” He’s flustered, flailing now, in unfamiliar territory, allowing the first thought to drop out of his mouth without scrutinising it first, and feels like it only gets worse. “But I – I had myself convinced I didn’t want it. Because, I don’t know. I’m -” Scared, he can’t bring himself to say. He knows it’d tear a wound which might not heal so easily. “Look. I’ll go. You don’t have to deal with this.”

No one should have to deal with him like this, sputtering and ashamed to the core, cheeks hot and composure non-existent. He wants to go home and hide for the next century and if Blackbeard told him now he’s not worth the trouble he’s causing, he wouldn’t even object.

“Don’t.” A plea. Heartfelt, for what it’s worth, but any other way and Goyo would already be putting on his second shoe. “I don’t know what to do, or what to say. I don’t know what you’d like me to do or say.”

Neither does Goyo. That’s the whole problem.

Blackbeard must be cold, nearly naked and standing in the faint draft coming in from under the door. He shifts his weight uncomfortably as they stare at each other. Please, Goyo thinks, unsure of what he even means by that. But when the next words hit his ears, he knows it’s what he’s been hoping for: “Just… come back to bed. Okay?”

The shoe hits the ground with a sharp sound cutting through the tense atmosphere between them.

.

Unsurprisingly, Blackbeard prefers being the big spoon. They fight over the blanket since Goyo needs it to sleep whereas Blackbeard insists it’s entirely too warm, and the familiar back-and-forth calms his racing heart. As does the gentle hand rubbing vague circles into his chest while they cuddle. After a few soothing moments, he asks the dreaded question of when Blackbeard's first alarm will go off, resulting in even more bickering.

“I really wanted to watch that documentary”, Goyo mumbles regretfully against the arm he’s cradling like a stuffed toy, partly because it’s wonderfully warm and partly because the skin-on-skin contact does funny things to his stomach. Being pressed against the length of Blackbeard's body is magical. He hasn’t felt this safe in a long while.

“Don’t worry, I recorded it.”

The reply, half lost in his hair, gives Goyo pause. If they could actually see anything in the impenetrable darkness Blackbeard requires to sleep peacefully, he’d turn around in indignation. “So you expected something like this to happen?”

He can feel the smile against his scalp. “Call it wishful thinking. Doing nothing but kissing did take its toll.”

Huh. Seems like he was right.

Blackbeard really did plan on trying something.

#rainbow six siege #blackbeard #goyo #blackbeard/goyo #thiod #fanfic #this is far from the last time you'll hear from these two #bb is trying so hard #good thing goyo threw him a bone iykwim #this is a hole I didn't expect to fall into

[calpalirwin]

Endless Endings

Summary: Calum goes home for a funeral. He isn’t prepared for the feelings and memories that come with it.

A/N: I was watching This Is Us and Kevin and Sophie’s relationship gave me the feels (I will fix the formatting/add this to my masterlist in the morning, I just want to get this up cuz I’m excited!) Italics are flashbacks/memories

Content: Darker than my usual stuff

Word Count: 1.9K

And away, and away we go!

~~~

When he saw the caller ID, he was answering it before his ringtone could even kick in. “Zo? Hey, how’s everything?” Calum talked into the phone.

“Hey, Cal,” was the tearful reply.

“Zo, what happened?”

“She died, Cal. My mom. She’s gone.”

The phone clattered to the floor. Calum’s head felt like it was underwater, the worried voices of his bandmates sounding muddled as they tried to reach him. No. Claire Harper couldn’t be dead. Zoey!

His brain snapped back into enough focus for him up the phone, ignoring the jagged crack in the screen. “Hey, I got one for you,” his voice was telling her, his ears still ringing.

“What?” she asked, holding back the next sob.

“He starts an apple cider company. Calls it ‘How do you like them apples?’.”

Her laugh wasn’t the laugh he remembered. It was choked. “Thank you, Cal.”

“Anytime, Zo.”

The voices around him were still muddled as he hung up the phone. “Zo? Zoey Harper? From home? Cal, is she okay?”

“I gotta go home,” was all Calum replied with before walking out of the studio.

~~~

“Hey!” the girl scolded the boy and his stirred up cloud of sand from his jump off the swingset.

“Sorry!” the boy grinned, showing off a missing tooth.

“Watch it,” she continued to growl.

“I said I was sorry!” he told her, crossing his arms, his smile disappearing.

“Ooo!” another boy snickered. “Cal likes Zoey! Cal likes Zoey! Cal and Zoey, sitting in a tree!”

“Shut up!” they both shouted at the other boy before they looked at each other and shared a look of disgust complete with a “Yuck!” and fake gagging.

Calum smiled to himself as he stared out the plane window. It was amazing how easily the memories came back to him. A lifetime of him and Zoey Harper- his first, and only love.

~~~

“And now, Claire’s daughter would like to say a few words,” the pastor said and a young blonde in a sleek black dress moved to the podium.

Her striking green eyes were red around the edges as they scanned the room. A small smile curved on her lips when green met brown. “My mother and I didn’t always see eye to eye. Maybe that’s not something I should say at her funeral, but it’s the truth. She was reckless in everything she did. And as much as it drove me nuts, it also encouraged me to take my own risks. And, uh…” Zoey paused to collect her thoughts, and in the back, Calum let his run wild.

“Oh, Cal, that’s great!” Claire cheered, wrapping him tightly in a hug. “Isn’t that great, Zo? London! Wow!”

“Yeah, great,” Zoey forced a smile. She wanted to be happy for Calum and his band. But how could she when her boyfriend was dropping a bomb like dropping out of school and moving to fucking London?

“Zo,” both Calum and Claire said, frowning.

Zoey scraped her chair back, striding out of the room.

“Zo!” Calum called after her.

“I need a minute!” she yelled and the slamming door rattled the windows.

Calum sighed, letting her go, figuring he might as well start practicing now.

“Hey,” Claire said, reaching across the table to grip his hands in hers. “Don’t let the fear of what’s to come diminish the greatness of this moment, Cal. Allow yourself to be happy in the most unfiltered way. Shout your joy from the rooftops. You boys have worked hard. This is your moment. Never settle.”

“‘Great things happen when you chase after what you want.’ It was like her catchphrase. It’s what she told me when I finally moved to New York and got that dream apartment. She came to visit and we went out for coffee. This real small hole-in-the-wall place. We would always go when she came out or I would send her a bag of their home roast. I was actually… I was in that shop trying to buy a bag. I was giving the clerk hell for not having their home roast. Funny how quickly priorities change with a phone call. God, I owe that clerk an apology,” Zoey’s voice broke off in a small giggle. “I’m gonna miss you, Mom.”

~~~

The bell on the door jangled as he walked in the doughnut shop.

Calum’s laugh rang out around them as she swallowed her bite. “What?” she asked, self-consciously. “Do I have something on my face?”

He continued to snicker in his hand, “Geez, Zo, it’s everywhere!”

“Have you seen your own face?”

“What are you talking about? I do- Zo!” he gasped as her finger swiped the chocolate frosting off his doughnut and smeared it across his cheek.

“Hah!” she laughed at him. Then she was squealing as he rubbed his cheek against her face, creating a powdered sugar chocolatey mess, their giggles filling the small shop. “You’re crazy,” she told him, her cheeks pink with laughter.

“Crazy in love with you,” he replied, pecking her lips with his.

“And I’m just as crazy,” she smiled against his lips.

“What can I get for you, today, sir?” the teenager behind the counter asked.

“One powdered and one chocolate, please,” Calum said. “Actually, two chocolate, please,” he amended as his stomach growled.

~~~

She had a forced smile on her face as she was engaged in a conversation with someone, her eyes begging to be rescued. Calum leaned against the car, not wanting to go inside, feeling so out of place outside somewhere he once considered a home. He dug his phone out of his pocket, watching her as the line rang on his end. Her eyes glanced down at the phone in her own hand, her smile becoming a little more genuine as she answered. “Hey, Cal.” Her voice was heavy and Calum knew instantly that Zoey hadn’t been sleeping for God knows how long.

“Hey. So I was driving and I passed by that doughnut shop we used to frequent. And uh… well, I got one with your name on it. I’m out front.”

Her eyes glanced up and locked on him through the window. She put a hand over the speaker and excused herself from her conversation, walking out of Calum’s view. “Get me out of here,” her voice was saying and then she was in front of him, grabbing the doughnut back from him and sliding into the passenger seat.

~~~

“Hey, I got one for ya,” she said, breaking the silence as they ate their doughnuts, powdered sugar coating her mouth and dress.

“Shoot.”

“He goes to Alaska to become a fisherman in an isolated village and never talks to another soul.”

“Damn, that’s dark,” Calum giggled, handing her a napkin. “Seriously, do you even aim for your mouth when you eat?”

She giggled with him as she dusted off her lap. The giggle turned into a sigh. “I can’t believe you came. I feel like I’m underwater. Like my body is on auto-pilot, while my brain is a million miles away. Seeing you again, well, it grounded me. You’re the only one who gets it Cal. You’re the only one I can let my guard down with.”

“Isn’t that what your fiancé’s for?” he asked with a pointed glance to the ring on her finger.

“He didn’t know her like you did. And now he never will.” Her eyes stared out the window. “Oh, wow,” she breathed, realizing where they were. “I haven’t been here in forever.”

“Me neither,” he admitted, putting the car in park. “Every time I come home, I can never bring myself to come here. I had my best and worst night of my life here.”

“On the same fuckin night,” she recalled.

“On the same fuckin night,” he agreed.

Every summer the park held a Movies in the Park night, showing everything from old-time classics to current blockbusters. Neither of them had seen Good Will Hunting, but had always wanted to. So there they sat, curled up under a blanket and the stars, eyes glued to the large projector screen.

“Aw!” the audience let out a collective groan as the projector sputtered and the screen went black.

“Sorry about this folks! Please help yourself to the concession stand we have set up, free of charge, and we’ll try to get this up and running again shortly,” a volunteer announced.

Calum and Zoey turned to each other, sharing a grin. “Free snacks!” they shouted in each other’s faces before scrambling to snag free popcorn.

“Hmm, looks like they fixed it,” Calum said as they swung side by side. “Should we go back?”

“Nah,” Zoey replied with a shake of her head. “Where it stopped was actually perfect. No ending could be better than that.”

“We could make up our own,” Calum suggested.

“We could!” she exclaimed, loving the idea. “Promise me we’ll never watch the real ending.”

“Promise,” he swore.

So back and forth they went, creating their own endings, long after the real movie had ended and long after the popcorn disappeared. They would have stayed all night and into the morning had it not been for Mali striding towards them, tears running down her face.

“Mali?” Calum asked, his voice laced with worry as his sister looked about a millisecond away from a breakdown. “Mali, what’s wrong?!”

In the dim lighting from a nearby streetlamp, Zoey could see the darkening of his already dark eyes and the clench of his fists as worry gave way to anger that someone had hurt his sister. “Dad’s gone, Cal,” was the broken answer. “Him and Mum got in another fight and he’s… he’s gone!” With the confession off her lips, the older sibling collapsed into the younger one’s arms as they both began to sob over their parents’ broken marriage.

~~~

“Did you ever watch the ending?” she asked as they swung side by side.

Calum shook his head. “Nah. That was probably the only thing I ever did right.”

“Cal, don’t say that…”

“It’s the truth. I had everything that night and then I lost it all before sunrise.”

“Cal, you didn’t lose anything. Yes, your parents split and I know how hard that was for you. But you weren’t running away. You went off to London because you chased a dream. A dream that paid off rather fuckin’ well, by the way.”

“And you?”

“You didn’t lose me either Cal. We just weren’t meant to be.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to love a girl the way I loved you…”

“Then love her differently. Love her better.”

“Are you happy? With the endings we created?”

“Are you?” she challenged, knowing he didn’t mean the movie.

He chuckled and pulled out his phone. “Wanna see the real ending?”

“Sure.”

They sat, side by side, the warm sun on their faces, and watched the ending of a movie they swore never to watch the ending of. And it was better than all the endings they could have ever imagined on their own. But still, they both felt a finality to it all, and when Calum dropped her off back home, he wondered if he was better off with his endless imagined endings than the real one.

~~~

Tag List

@goeatsomelife @flameraine @cashtonasff5sos @here-for-the-uproars @cxddlyash @1-irwin-94 @baldcalum @sparkling-chaos @tea4sykes @youngblood199456 @5-seconds-of-obsession

#endless endings #calum hood #calum hood fic #5sos #galcal irwin

[tazzmanien]

The Tian Guan Ci Fu (Heaven Official’s Blessing) Review

Okay I’m doing it finally. Sorry if it ended up way too long, but in my defense the novel itself was huge so…

First of all I will not be comparing this novel with any of the other MXTX novels, but I just want to tell you this is definitely my new favorite for several reasons, but mostly its love story. If you want to know more write me I will gladly talk more about this.

I read in many posts everywhere that Hualian invented love. Well you know what, there is really no lie there. Theirs is one of the most beautiful love stories out there.

So, before I go into the details, please just go and read the novel!!! NOW! 

The good:

Usually I would like to say a few words about the writing style and quality, but as I’ve only read a translation of the novel I don’t think I can tell you much about it. The translation was very easy to read, so I’m guessing the novel can’t be too extravagant or bad either. BTW thank you everyone who is doing translations for FREE. You all are angels!

The novel was quite long, but the moment you step into the world you would wish it was longer. Every character has their own story and they needs time to evolve, so I really liked its length, but also not so much. Check out the bad for more information.

I liked how the story took place in three realms and different times. I know some get confused by such switches, but I tend to enjoy them very much. I think the heaven and the ghost city were so diverse, that I can’t wait to see them play out in whatever visual adaptation. I feel like this time around MXTX finally explained the actual world with more detail, which made it easier for me to imagine myself strolling through the ghost city market buying sum forbidden rubbish, or watching the moon up close while seated in a garden in heaven. I could see, smell, feel, hear and sometimes unfortunately even taste many things and that is what I think good writing should be about. The things that weren’t described in detail made it even more fun, as one could work with their own imagination (this might be a bad thing for visual adaptations, just saying). And some of you might remember I complained before that if one has no prior knowledge about the whole cultivation, eastern religion and xianxia stuff, then you might have issues reading MXTX books, well this did not change, but I guess I’m starting to appreciate it, as my own imagination created a whole new version of what this whole thing was meant to be. Still, I should have probably listed this in the bad part as well.

The main plot was very interesting and at times even slightly surprising. Mostly it was quite predictable, but I think writing does not have to invent itself every time again, but it has to give some sort of satisfaction at the end. If a story is predictable deep down to every little detail, this is not a huge issues if the story has other strengths. And this one had a nice mix of both.

It did have some parts which appalled me, but you know what, this was actually a good thing. Like I felt a lot of things, even though I really didn’t want to. The things that were disgusting, really actually disgusted me. The things that were supposed to make you angry, made me go nuts. The things that should have made you happy, made my grin like a maniac. But worst of all, were the things that existed to hurt you, they ripped out my heart and shredded it in front of me while I was still conscious. So all in all, yeah even the bad parts about the plot served a purpose. If you are good at keeping track on the main plot while diving into hundreds of subplots, then I would say it was easy to follow. I think this was okay, but the other way around (remembering the subplots) I would argue differently (more in the bad). Nevertheless, some of the subplots were so beautiful that I think they might have deserved their own novel, but isn’t that the case with all good stories?

On a side note, I don’t know if that was intended or if I just saw things that weren’t there, but was the hidden plot actually about how wrong idolizing people is and how it feels to go through post traumatic stress? I might write some more on this in a separate post, I just wanted to get it off my chest here.

Now my favorite part of any MXTX novel: the characters. Honestly, I can’t remember many stories where I loved every character. But MXTX did it again, I loved all of them, even the ones I hated. Once again the way the side characters were introduced, involved in the main story and the main guys, had their own very individual nature and lifes and fought with their own challenges was beautiful. Every character had their own aura (for the lack of a better word). Yeah I like to make fun of this but it’s true nevertheless: most of them had sad histories or were living their nightmares while the plot evolved, however, this was good as it made me appreciate the few sunreys that were able to shine through the clouds even more. As I said, I hated quite a few of them, but either they had their moment one had to love them for or they served another purpose, like propelling other characters to become what they were meant to be or drive the overall plot. And none of this felt forced. So to make it short wow!

And last but no least, the main characters and their love story. 

Xie Lian, our protagonist, my angel my only god the life of my love (yeah I used this one already, sue me), is an adorkable martial arts badass/nerd with the worst luck and cooking skills and spiderman reflexes. He is a true neutral, treats everyone with the same respect, just the way a god should be. He is so genuine in every aspect of his being. He is fully aware of all his shortcomings and all the wrongs he has done, but he still hasn’t lost the good in him and the will to act righteously. He is just so so human, that each of us could learn a little from him. I mean he even warns the freaking demon king to not think too highly of him, because he might disappoint him. And what does Hua Cheng do? He calls him his hope! So XL gives the cruelest of all the demons hope. This shows how perfectly imperfect and inspirational XL is. The world does not deserve him, yet still treats him the worst it can. He lost everything, EVERYTHING! Still he somehow came out to be this beautiful being. The only consolation we get is that at least he gets to have Hua Cheng in his life.

And Hua Cheng, he is the only man out there! Towards Xie Lian he is gentle, loving, understanding, supportive, patient, strong, funny and all sorts of beautiful things. With everyone else he is everything you would expect of a demon king to be and none of it a the same time. He is unpredictable in all things that are not Xie Lian. He does so many good deeds that one would forget that he is a demon king, but he hates, is cruel, intimidating, has killed and is mischievous through and through. Even though we don’t get to see everything about him (see the bad), we know him to be the perfect grey character. Also he proves to be the realest of them all, he stands by everything he says and does and I respect that a lot. He shows his anger and love equally and acts upon both equally. And is so freaking intelligent, handsome, sensual, seductive and cute, that I am actually fearing of being in love with a fictional character. The butterflies are a nice touch btw.

Yes, you are right, we all tend to praise almost every main couple, when the love story is good, but please hear me out. Both of them individually are just perfect in their own imperfect way and together they are the definition of true love. Their first encounter was magical to say the least. Without having any prior knowledge about the overall story or how their love would come to be, I was bewitched from the first moment they both shared the “screen”. I could feel the air stilling, just so I could give my full attention to them falling in love (yeah I know one was already head over heels before that meeting, but that is beside the point). And boy, the way they were falling. It was so realistic and yet hopelessly romantic, that I will use them as the perfect example to show people what it feels like to fall and be in love. 

The bad:

The length and some subplots… Yes well it was quite strenuous to follow the happenings, as every character had their own huge side story. While I loved to know every single bit of their stories, sometimes it took me a while to get back on track in the main story and many many times I totally forgot about some subplots later in the novel and was like “where is the other character now? why don’t we see them anymore?”. Despite its length, some characters stories were either only told from the view of the protagonist and lost a lot of what was going on deep down, or some characters stories had huge gaps even. Sure, it was not their story and we can be happy we even got something, but at some point I was kinda disappointed to be teased about a character and never get to find out what happened or how they felt. So I would have enjoyed an even longer book even if the one now was too long. Do you get what I mean? At the end of the day I can actually forget and forgive all except the fact that we never got to see some sides of Hua Cheng and had to read between the lines to understand his motives and feelings a little better. I need a whole book about him only to be honest. 

So my next bad thing, might actually be inaccurate if I’d knew more about Hua Cheng. This part is probably highly subjective, but I feel like Hua Cheng was not demonic enough. You know, in my head I pictured him to be a real demon, including the looks and what he is doing. How else would he become a demon king? I mean the looks were pretty much on point, I just feel like all the other characters either ignored it or didn’t care and the fandom just makes him look more like a human being. And yes he treats many badly, but in my opinion not bad enough. It feels like all his good deeds got more screen time and his bad deeds were either justified by something good or not really shown.

Not sure if it was only my short attention span or if that was the case, but I felt like the living world was not described as good as the heaven and ghost city. 

Conclusion:

I would recommend this novel to everyone who wants to feel love, but is not afraid to hurt a LOT. If you are searching for a story with some human or heavenly goodness, good friendships, good families, just decent people, then this is not a book for you. Xie Lian is the only exception of course and he is worth every tear you are 100% going to shed.

Just go and read the book! Please. And come back to me and talk about it with me :)

#tian guan ci fu #heaven official's blessing #heaven officials blessing #tgcf #hob #xie lian #hua cheng #hualian