#why do I only ever talk about trench rats I swear

[my-darling-boy]

Banging out the tunes, WWI, circa 1914

#I was thinking about this ALL DAY at work #why do I only ever talk about trench rats I swear #wwi #rat #neil banging out the tunes

[lieblingspulli]

The Final Lily

w.c: 3.8k

Jungkook x OC

Summary: Jungkook is a musical, artistic and Nighttime sky deity that falls in love with a mortal author. To keep her safe, he stays away and gives her gifts in order to make her dreams come true, even far after she has become a legendary playwright and has passed.

Masterlist!

-

The theater began to feel stuffy as people piled into their seats. All Jungkook could hear was the elite of Paris chatting away and the usual theater conversations. Jungkook wiped away some sweat from the back of his neck. It was hot in here.

Being packed in a theater like rats with the sweatiest people Jungkook had ever seen was not on his itinerary for today. He had seen marvels that no one had ever seen before and yet he was here sitting next to a Vicomte and his wife who sweat like pigs. Jungkook was disgusted. He tried to hide it. Jungkook wasn’t here to converse with sweaty nobility, he was here for a play. Or more so a retelling of a poem. A really long one.

The French nobility around him seemed to ignore him entirely, which meant his disguise was working. He had begged for Jin to cloak him so that he was not noticeable tonight. Tonight was deeply important to him and Jin knew why.

Jungkook recalled his conversation with Jin earlier. He was unsure about how Jin would react.

“Are you sure you want to go down there in your state Jungkook? They can see you and immediately recognize you from a mile away.” Jin looked at him, uneasy about this whole thing.

“Jin, you know I have to. Today is too special for me not to.” Jungkook pleaded and gave Jin his doe eyes. “I haven’t missed this day for almost four thousand years. I can’t do this without your help.”

“Yoongi would get mad at me for letting you sneak down there, looking so obvious. You can’t just pop up in the middle of Paris and expect not to be seen in a dark theater when you’re literally glowing Jungkook.”

Jungkook felt the frustration building in his throat and huffed.

“I won’t get caught, I promise. Really!” He waited a second and stared at Jin pleadingly who was looking a great deal uncomfortable with the prospect of letting the younger god just waltz into a human packed space when he was at the peak of his power. Jungkook knew this. He knew the dangers of going out like this, and he knew Jin knew it too. He grimaced and pleaded with his eyes to Jin as he could see the wheels turning in Jin’s head.

“I swear to myself, if you get caught, you never asked me, okay? This is so dangerous, you don’t even know how much trouble I would get in if Yoongi found out.” Jin nervously bit his fingers and gestured to nowhere in particular. Jungkook just grinned and ran out.

As the theater filled and people in unnecessary frilly dresses took their seats, Jungkook gripped the theater ticket in his hands. He felt empty, even with this ticket in his hand. He should have been happy, but he wasn’t. Jungkook stared at the title of the play for a good ten minutes before the lights started to dim and it took his vision of the ticket away from him. Jungkook heard the presenter say something in French, but he didn’t bother to learn the language so it just sounded like curly language to him. He wished he did learn it though, he wanted to hear all the praises that his Asteria would have cried over. He wanted to commit every single one to memory so that maybe one day, he could tell her how many people loved her work. Jungkook frowned and tried to keep his tears in. His heart ached but it was too early for that. Taking a deep breath, he looked up and focused on the curtain opening as two people (clearly actors) were positioned by a fake pond and started their scene.

The next two hours were like a blur for Jungkook. He knew every single word of this poem, every single breath, every single tear and every single kiss. He knew the words by heart and he knew what each cue meant. He could even give Namjoon a run for his money if he told him that he knew the exact pace at which each sentence should be spoken. Jungkook may have been a patron of writing and inspired many great writers, but none moved him as much as this piece did. This piece felt like it was for his eyes only, and Jungkook was angry that it outlived the person who should be right next to him, watching the actors say their lines with joy. The stillness of the theater felt strange, it was hot and stuffy, but each person focused intently on the actors who were fake crying and fake admiring the water. He studied everyone’s face when the main lead met her love and asked about her gifts. He smiled when everyone else did at the scene where the lead, whose name was Isidora, finally got to kiss the man who led her to happiness. Jungkook loved every part of this play.

Isadora’s eyes glinted in the theater spotlight and suddenly she was gleaming with joy. Jungkook’s unintentional aura had made her gleam like moonlight and the play was phenomenal because of it. Every careful line was read by her actor with vigor and drama, eager to show the audience the power of love. Agapinor, Isadora’s lover read his lines with fervor. Jungkook studied their faces for a while before their scene was over, not listening to their words anymore.

He knew why the lead’s name was Isidora, and it made him smile with joy but also cry tears of grief. Isidora was Greek for ‘the gift of the moon’. This poem was supposed to be a gift of the moon but really, it was a gift for him. It was a gift for the moon. Jungkook clutched his ticket tighter as he watched Isidora be ripped away from her love and never see him again. The ending always made him emotional. He could hear the sweaty nobles gasp and he almost regretted coming here. It was always like this and had been for centuries. Jungkook quickly left before the lights even turned on in the theater, away from those smelly people and snobby politicians. Away from his gift and away from the words of his love.

Jungkook briskly walked out, careful not to bump into anybody and attract attention to himself. It was enough that the full moon made him practically glow, but his presence at the theater had calmed everybody and made them emotional. He needed to leave before he was spotted. His heart burned and his eyes stung, but he made it to the edge of the brick ledge, overlooking the canal. In the water’s reflection he could see the point of the Eiffel tower, a metal marvel that amazed him every time he saw it. Jungkook thought Yoongi would have liked to see it, but Yoongi wasn’t the type to roam the streets of Paris, or any other city for that matter. He was firmly against human contact and had stayed away for centuries from them. The last time Yoongi graced Earth was when he had to come down and fix Taehyung’s last great flood near Sparta. That was also the last time he had seen Yoongi so mad. Jungkook shuddered at the thought.

He kept staring at the Eiffel tower and eventually he could see little specks in the sky, reflected from the water. It always happened like this. The play and then the meteors. Jungkook wanted to catch every meteor and cradle them in his arms. He wanted to see her again. A silver droplet landed in the water and made the canal water clear up a little. Jungkook continued to observe the blurry specks until he looked up and saw them clearly, despite his tears. The moon seemed to shine a little brighter and the meteors sparkled beautifully in the clear night sky. Jungkook decided it was time to go and see them for real now. He walked away from the ledge and pulled his trench coat a little tighter in.

-

Jungkook materialized behind a big oak tree that had been there for millenia. It was a very old oak tree, it should have withered long ago. But it was also a gift for him. Namjoon had perfectly preserved this grove in its entirety. The flowers here bloomed at the same time every year for hundreds of years. The grass never withered and the trees stayed green. The Mediterranean climate helped preserve the flora and fauna and Namjoon had even kept the pond the same for many years. It held the same beauty as it did when Jungkook was first led here. Even in the middle of the 17th century, this sacred place had remained untouched. Jungkook felt the cool breeze of the night and saw the same meteors he had seen earlier streak the sky with glittering white specks. Asteria would have loved to see the natural beauty of her special spot.

Tears welled up in Jungkook’s eyes as he carefully sat on the grass next to her pond. Little silver fish swam away from him as he touched a finger to the surface of the cool water. He tucked his sandaled feet under his thighs and crossed his legs over each other, careful not to pull the fabric of his chiton and so that the object he held in his hands could rest in his lap.

“I’m back for you my love.” Jungkook said to nobody. “Can I read to you? Just as you would to me, do you remember?” He managed to choke out, suddenly short of breath. The trees rustled with the slight breeze, but no answer. Jungkook was here alone, he knew that. But he still felt like he wasn’t. So he talked freely here, the only time he could talk to her with his real voice. Jungkook looked at the dartfish and nodded, ready to read.

He carefully opened the leather cover of his book and saw the charcoal markings inside the rough cover. This was the original book he had made her sign. In the bright moonlight, the leather and worn paper seemed gray rather than a faded brown. This relic was older than many buildings here, even older than the pantheon on the hill of Athens. It was made of real goat leather and rough scroll paper, made by artisans in her time. Jungkook ran his fingers along the paper and felt all the rough bumps. He didn’t touch the writing, afraid the charcoal would smudge as if it were fresh. He flipped the page and read the first lines of the book in his mind. He started to read out loud after he cleared his throat and wasn’t afraid anymore. His Asteria’s writing always made him less afraid. He read the first page and remembered her voice reading it. He breathed life into her words as she once did when she was creating them. Jungkook’s voice hitched at the end of the page when he read the same words Asteria had written as she began to voice her ambitions out loud. He could close his eyes and remember it like it was yesterday.

“I hope these words reach people outside of this small little village. I want them to be as famous as the classics.” Asteria whispered to herself as she scribbled some words in her newly bound book. Jungkook wanted to shout to her, “You will! I’ll make it so!” But he couldn’t. He couldn’t speak, so he only looked at her longingly from behind a thick tree, as if his words in his mind could reach her. But they didn’t. He watched Asteria continue to scribble on her first page of the book he had left for her.

“I also wonder if I’ll ever meet the man who left me these gifts. I hope it’s not Pheobos. His manners are worse than a pig’s. I want this man to be handsome and kind and loving. I hope I’ll get to see him someday.” She sighed out and shamelessly looked at the fish in the pond with longing. Jungkook was left with little restraint and wide eyes. She was so unabashed about what she wanted, he loved it. He wanted to give her everything she wanted and more. He wanted to love her better than any man could. Better than that Pheobos could anyway. Her tiny voice continued on with her proclamations.

“I probably shouldn’t be saying this but please, if anyone is out there and listening, Aphrodite, maybe? Let me see this man at least once in my life.” Asteria stopped writing and relaxed her shoulders as she watched the clear sky. “I want to see the man I’ve fallen in love with.” Her golden brown hair flew in the wind and it shined like golden thread. The breeze quickly died and she patiently stared at the glittering blue ocean, visible from her pond.

These words made Jungkook’s breath hitch and his heart flutter. His face felt warm and his ears, he knew, were red. He wanted so badly to just run out and say, “Here I am!” Jungkook listened in painful silence as Asteria waited for a sign, but Hobi had made the day too good, and nothing made a noise, not even with the wind. Jungkook wanted to throw a pebble or something to convince her that he was there and he would always be there. Asteria sighed and continued to write.

Jungkook clutched the book tightly but quickly let go in fear that it would crumble into ashes. He could feel his face still warm from his memory and he could remember how warm her presence had made him. Her entire being had comforted him, he wistfully wished for that again. He was afraid that his memories would turn to ashes along with his book, so he held it as if he were to hold her, never to let go. Jungkook squeezed his eyes as he let his tears run down his face and onto his hands. The silver droplets quickly disappeared and if anything, they made more meteors fall. He could feel the cool breeze caress his warm cheeks as if to comfort him, saying no more tears. He choked on his tears that quickly turned to sobs.

Everything in Jungkook told him that Asteria was his love and his only. Out of the millennia of him being alive, he only truly felt alive with her in his presence. Her warm smile and golden skin made him fall in love with her every time he pictured her in his mind. Her soft, delicate hands were made to write and he loved to see them work their magic. He fell in love with every part of her, from her fingers to her peach colored lips, to her eyes that held the stars. Jungkook could hear her laugh every time she smiled and he could hear it echo in his mind as he imagined her receiving the first copy of her book. He could remember her jumping excitedly as the publisher congratulated her for it. Her excited giggles were fresh in his mind as he sat here, centuries later without her.

Jungkook vividly remembered the touch of her fingers on his as they both reached for the pen she had dropped. When she looked at him, in his disguise of course, he had memorized the map of her face, the glint in her eyes and the beauty marks on her cheeks. He could paint a perfect picture of her just with his memories alone. Her insistent laugh as she apologized for being so unlady-like had been seared into his brain. Her tears had been solidified in his memories. Jungkook sobbed as he watched the meteors fall in grace. The moon mocked him with it’s glow. The meteors fell so beautifully against the midnight sky and the constellations his brothers had created that he wanted to snatch them and throw them into the ocean. Jungkook wanted to make her his. He wanted to bring her back and he wanted to show her the wonders of this new world. He wanted her to love him and he wanted to love her. He wanted to love her sunkissed fingers and her high cheekbones and her curly baby hairs and her smooth neck. He wanted to melt into her touch instead of his puddle of misery. He wanted to beg Taehyung and Jin to bring a soul back to life, even though none of them had the power to do so. He would traverse the planes of his own existence to bring her back. He would do anything for her gaze again.

Jungkook took a shaky breath and let the book float in his hands as it dematerialized into the space he called home. It would show up in his room later. Hands now empty of her writing, he felt uneasy again. Some tears made his vision blurry and he had cried enough times to know not to touch them or else it would make his eyes burn. His tears were supposed to heal him, as moonlight droplets usually would, but he found that his tears for her never did. They seemed to make his eyes burn and his heart hurt even more. Jungkook continued to observe this space, it’s natural beauty and the meteors that fell for her. He continued to wonder if he would ever see her again, in vain. Jungkook never got to hold her or kiss her or even tell her he loved her, but he just wished that she didn’t die feeling unloved. He loved her passionately and deeply, he stored her memories in his heart and locked them away for days like these. He seemed to find her face in every painting that Namjoon showed him. He found her words in every book he read.

Looking back down at the pond and the reflection of the stars in her pond, he finally spoke to her.

“I wish you were here to see how much you’ve come to be known.” The fish were startled by his voice. “I just wish I could have shown my true face to you, and loved you how you were. I wish I could have kept you with me forever.” Jungkook’s words died in the still air and he felt a tear slide down his chin once again. The meteors had slowed down and the moon was beginning to shift with the time he spent here. He never wanted to leave. He was so attached to this silly little pond, he felt like sleeping here if he could.

“Please say something.” Jungkook whispered. Nothing answered back.

The oak tree branches rustled with the slight breeze and he suddenly felt the chill. Asteria’s warmth was no longer here. Jungkook took this as a sign to leave.

As Jungkook leaned to push himself up off the ground, he spotted something glowing white in the moonlight. It caught his eye instantly, the object seemed to sparkle in the little moonlight that was left. He only realized what it was when he crawled over to it, careful not to block the moonlight.

Blossoming in front of his own two eyes was a delicate flower. It’s petals were soft, just like Asteria’s lips. The glowing white color brought Jungkook to the verge of tears. He trembled, afraid to kill it if he touched it. But he gently touched it anyway.

Right in the same spot that Jungkook watched his Asteria write her books for years was a delicate and fully blossomed white Lily. It’s leaves were strong and healthy, it’s petals soft and delicate. The strong floral scent of the lily hit Jungkook so hard, it brought him to full sobs again. The flower blossomed in the direction of the pond, but Jungkook felt like it was facing him, telling him it was okay. The healthy petals and yellow pollen spoke to him. They told him that this was it, without any words. Jungkook knew this was a sign and he sobbed into his hands, hating that he knew what it meant.

He knew that Asteria lived a long and good life. He wanted her to, so he protected her like a flower blossoming in his garden. Even after she was married and had kids, he left a white lily for her every day on this spot. Even when she stopped coming to their spot, he left her a blossom. Even after she was gone, he came here and left her a lily every day. Soon enough, he stopped coming too, too cowardly to face his grief of losing her. He could no longer see her or feel her warmth, so he no longer left her flowers. But this blossom, growing from this unchanging dirt that had stayed the same for centuries, it was for him. He could feel it. He somehow sensed that she knew he left her those things. This flower was proof. Jungkook softly caressed the petals and a silver teardrop fell on the ground beside it, making the soil become dark with fertility.

Jungkook sighed and furrowed his brows hard. Namjoon had taught him to manifest flowers eons ago, even if he did not have the power to do so. He felt like he had to, for Asteria. He needed to leave a sign for her spirit, so she could rest in peace. He needed to say something to her finally for the first time. So he tried.

Carefully Jungkook shifted himself to the space next to her flower and held his shaky hands just above the soil. Using the still fertile soil, he concentrated long and hard, imagining the scent and exact color of his new blossom. As he held his breath, he lifted his hands in a slow upward motion and felt a soft stem poke his palm. Jungkook opened one eye and saw a flower growing right before his eyes. In a matter of seconds his flower had opened and bloomed a bright orange lily with black specks on it’s petals.

The fertile soil and his heightened abilities had made the stem thick and strong, the petals seemed hearty. They gleamed with the bright moonlight. Jungkook admired his work and noticed that a vine off the stem had grown over to the white lily and curled around it’s stem. Jungkook’s burning eyes welled with more tears and he shifted his weight back onto his feet while sitting on his knees. This would be his final goodbye for her. A final gift to his other half. A final testament of his love, these blossoms would live eternally in this Eden of theirs. Jungkook slowly got up and willed the rest of his energy into one last star that shined bright in the sky. The closest one to the moon, he willed it to shine brighter than any other star in his night sky. Jungkook’s tears flowed freely as he walked away from his memory of her forever.

#Jungkook #bts #oc #deity #namjoon #yoongi #hobi #jin #jimin #taehyung

[yamithediaperdork]

Forgotten Stories 3: Baby hunter and Daddy vampire (you guessed it, Mortal Instruments)

jace signed softly as he waited at the cafe. He was annoyed something fierce as the former mundane turned vampire Simon had flat out SUMMONED here to the late night dinner, saying that they NEEDED to talk. Jace, who had better things to do, and money to make was understandably vexed and as he sipped on the black crud that this greasy spoon dared to call coffee, he mumbled to himself. "Swear to god, if it's more of my blood he's after.." the shadow hunter grumbled, then set the coffee down and reached once again for the sugar, pouring more into the crud. "How the hell do you not have diabetes?" Came the amused tone of the vampire and jace just rolled his eyes. "you know,. just because you're immortal and can drink anything doesn't mean the rest of us are. i have to make this drinkable SOMEHOW." the blond shot back and then nodded to the seat across from him. "Now you wanna tell me why I'm here instead of doing better things with my time? I'm not giving you more blood..or gum wrappers." jace smirked at that as Simon narrowed his eyes, taking a seat. "ohhh wow, soo witty. I was a rat for a few hours years ago. get over it. and besides, in terms of embarrassing things.. i think you've more then topped me being turned into a rat." Simon said and gave a big smirk. "what ever you think you've found-" Jace started to say, but even as he spoke he was getting a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and then Simon pulled out a tablet, which was already on a certain naughty boys mycam page. Jace's to be exact. "..So did i ever tell you I have a twin brother wh-" "Bull.shit.diaper boy." Simon said and then pressed play on a video.

the video came to life and there was jace, at a playground. it was late at night and he was wearing a trench coat but was smiling into the camera. "Sup my peeps? this is your boy Stinky J and thanks to a generous cash gift from daddy V, yours truly is about to go and take a epic dump in his huggies, and go and play. remember, if you got the money and have a idea, PM me and you can see my cute twink ass doing all sorts of degrading things. don't forget to like and comment." Jace said, dropping the tench coat and revealing that he was only in a paw patrol pull up under the jacket. Turning around and slapping his butt, the blond demon slayer poped a squat and audible grunting could be heard and then with a MASSIVELY loud fart and a sign of relief the the back of the pull up expanded rapidly, puffing out and discoloring as Jace coo'ed in content. "Mannn that feels better.. though whew..y'all should be thankfully you can't smell this!" the blond brat teased, waving a hand and then waddled slowly (clearly making a effort not to let his hot load spill out of the poor pull up) towards the slide. "heh, what do you think folks? time to slip sliding? ..yeah thats what i thought too~" climbing up the ladder it was hard to make out his face from the distance he was at and then the big stinky baby plopped down on his butt (a oh fuck! and gasping heard) and then the big baby was sliding down the slide and-

Grabbing the tablet Jace turned the video off and was beet red, looking down at the table. "...Ok what do you want?" Jace asked. "What i want,for starters, is for you to stop using the money I send you to get stupid pull-ups when i clearly state diapers." Simon said and smirked as Jace looked up at him in confusion, the realization. "Y-Your daddyv!" "Ding ding ding! thats right, you've been a poopie pull up baby brat for a vampire the past three months. i wonder just how much trouble you'll be in when your little clubhouse finds out not only are you a diaper pooping big baby. but a vampires bitch too~" Jace whimpered, it was going to be humiliating enough if anyone else found out about his naughty way to make extra money. add in he was doing it for vamp.. this was NOT going to be good. "L-Look..I already spent the money if you want it back an-" Jace started and Simon cut him off with a sharp laugh. "what makes you think I need your money? I've been the one spoiling you remember dip shit?" Simon snorted. Jace huffed and actually started to pout a little at that. "awww look at it this way..at least I'm not a mundane anymore. that would make what I'm gonna make you do to shut me up even more humiliating for you." Simon added cheerfully. "...should I be worried?" jace asked with a gulp. "terrified." Simon confirmed with a shit eating grin.

half a hour later and there were at a old warehouse that was boarded up on the outside but Simon flew himself and jace in though a window where.. a makeshift nursery was set up among the ruins. "...this is going to suck even more then i thought huh?" jace asked faintly. "well if nothing else, you're more then free to use this for your videos." Simon snickered and then winked. "maybe I'll even be your camera man too." "pretty sure i'ma stop doing the videos after this." jace huffed. "You say that now.." was all Simon would say on the matter, leaving jace even more worried. "now then, who's ready to be put back in a good diaper for a change, not a pull up that'll leak the second you putt too much pressure on it?" Simon asked, going over to by the changing table he had set up in the ruins and grabbing out a stupidly thick and massive diaper that instead of the normal designs one would expect on it.. had diaper fag in baby block letters all over it. "..That has to be a custom job." jace whined and pointed. "No shit Sherlock." Simon chuckled. "Clearly you are the brains of your outfit." "you don't have to be a jerk you know." jace whined, starting to tug his jeans and undies down and Simon laughed again, "really? YOU of all people giving someone hell for being rude?" Jace paused and gave a sheepish smile. "well when you put it like that.., god.. am I even gonna be able to WALK in that thing?" Jace asked, naked from the waist down and shaved bald down there. "Fuck no. but you'll be able to crawl and get on your knees, which is what i want." Simon said and smirked, showing off his fangs. "...I'm gonna be sucking your dick aren't I?" "Awww who's a clever little baby? you are!" "look i uh.. I don't know if-" "oh don't try and tell me you haven't been slurping on Alec's dick like a greedy cock slut for the past year. just about everyone knows you're his cum dumpster." "W-what!? I am not!" jace squeaked and had a full body blush going on as Simon walked over and swatted his cute cheeks, leaving the shadow hunters buns slightly red. "ah ah ah..No lying." "I-I really don't suck Alec off..he uh.." jace's voice trailed off and looking down at the ground, and poking too fingers together, he finished in a tiny voice. "I..I pay him to fuck me.." "oh? don't you think he'd do it if you asked nicely?" "I..uh.. he said he would for free but I uh..asked if i could.." jace trailed off again as Simon started to laugh. "oh my god, your a total bottom bitch! begging to pay for the privilege of getting that cock.. you know i thought you were just shitting yourself in diapers rto buy booze or whatever.. not degrading yourself in public so you can get that dick!" Simon laughed. "Does alec at least give you a cum dumpster discount?" "D-Depends on his mood...c-can i get put the diaper on and suck you off already and get this over with!?" Jace whined and huffed. "...awfully demanding for a diaper shitting butt slut aren't you? you know..i was gonna make you shit yourself before sucking me off.." "...i'm not going to like where this is heading am I?" "Normally i'd say no..but with what a fucking bottom bitch you are you'll likely be creaming your huggies." Simon said.

the alternative to Jace loading his pampers was worse then he had thought, and after getting onto the opened diaper fag diaper, he'd had to watch as Simon gave himself a mild enema. "you know your fucking disgusting right?" jace whined, on the verge of tears as Simon pulled the tub out of his ass and walked over. "right. i'm gonna listen to someone who bounces up and down in shitty diapers for money to get fucked into submission on whats normal and whats not. though don't think i didn't notice all those silver scars on your ass.. does alec just wreak your hole so much you have to heal or need diapies full time?" Simon asked, squatting over Jace's cock and balls now. "Oh my god will you just shut up and do it already so i can suck your stupid dick and get out of here!?" Jace yelled. "alll right, but you know you just ASKED me to shit on you right?" "All of my fucking hate." "love you too." Simon grunted and as jace looked, tears welling up in his eyes, a thick brown log snaked out of Simon's ass and as the tip of it touched Jace's cock, his cock started to go limp and the tears were flowing. "S-Simon please! stop! I do-" he started to sob and simon just smirked. "Shut up diaper baby. it's going in your diaper or down your throat." Simon said and jace just blubbered. the hot shit coiled around his crotch before it broke off and the smell was horrible, making jace hold his nose. "Awww whats wrong, the stinky baby can't take a REAL MAN'S funk?" Simon teased and bore down, pushing out anther thick log and shifting slightly, making sure this would coat the baby fags balls. the third and forth logs didn't go on baby jac'es cock and balls though, it went right into the diaper so it was squish all over the big babies back side and jace had to give up holding his nose as he needed to suck his thumb and close his eyes to keep from just getting up and trying to bolt. "awww, such a sad widdle diaper boy~ don't worry buddy, Daddy Simon is almost done getting your diapie nice and stinky for you, then you can have a cock baba." simon teased. jace just whimpered. finishing up with his smelly load, Simon grabbed jace's boxers and used them to wipe his ass, giving jace a look that dared him to open his mouth to complain then tossed them in a diaper pail and stepped clear of the dumb baby fag. leaning down simon made a face and waved a hand, then grinned to jace. "whew! no more tacos for me! thats rotten huh buddy?" simon teased and the dumb baby just sucked on his thumb and nodded, then whined loudly as the diaper was taped up. helping jace roll onto his tummy and then get up on his hands and knees, Simon then patted and rubbed the back of the loaded diaper, making baby Jace whimper even more but any and all fight was clearly out of the former big shot. "D-Daddy pwease..cock baba." the stupid little diaper wimp whined. "Awww you wanna show daddy how grateful you are he 's letting you see how it feels to wear real man shit huh?" Simon teased. Knowing what the sadistic vampire wanted him to say, jace whined, then nodded. "yesh daddy. pwease wet stinky jace suck your dicky to say fank ku." he whined and despite how much he hated the load in his diaper, hated simon, hated all of this., jace was getting wood. 'whats wrong with me!?'

Simon took a seat far enough away that jace's knees got a little scraped up crawling over, and the crawling he was forced to do only squished the mess around even more but then he was on his knees and looking at Simon's 6 inchs of fuck meat. it wasn't as big as Alec's (hell, Jaces was sure there were horses who weren't as hung as Alec) but the fact that he was going to suck anther mans dick while wearing his shit just had the poor bottom bitch in total sub mode and he leaned forward and planted a big sloppy kiss on the cock head as Simon moaned. Opening his mouth he took the vamp cock in slowly, worried about gagging till the whole thing was in his mouth, going down his touge and he had a nose full of musky pubes. the taste..wasn't so bad as as jace pulled his head back, trailing his touge and making Simon moan he almost, maybe kinda, found himself loving the taste. Pushing back down a little more eagerly the blond bitch started to bob his head up and down the fuck meat with eagerness and Simon reached down and ruffled jace's hair. "Fuck..fuck..good boy Jace. I knew you'd love this.. just a little fucking diaper fag.. Fuck..I'm gonna have you in diapers 24/7..just a total fucking diaper bitch for my amusement." Simon was groaning and jace in his horned up state moaned around the vamp cock. "Fucking knew you'd like that..Not gonna out you to your widdle friends but you're gonna be my little diaper bitch from now on..Mine. and you're not healing your ass next time Alec breeds you either..i want you helplessly shitting yourself while hunting demons." Simon was panting now, regretting the fact that he had edged all day to the thought of what he was going to do to jace and knew he couldn't last too much longer. "Gonna fucking dress you like a toddler and take you to the park in the day. let all the kids see you in your t-thick massive diapers..L-let them spank you.." Simon added and then noticed that jace was reaching back, mushing the mess around in his poofy diaper while worshiping his new daddies cock. "Ha! knew you'd love my shit! Get ready baby boy, time for you first of MANY loads of daddy milk!" jace pulled back and with just the cock head in his mouth, reached around jerked Simon's cock hard. he didn't know why but he felt like he NEEDED to taste full on all of the vampire boys load and wasn't disappointed as Simon's cock erupted all over his touge, filling his taste buds with the taste of real man cum. as the last few ropes of nut juice fired off, causing some to start to leak out of Jace's nose, the stupid big baby came hard in his poopie diaper and collapsed, whimpering and moaning. Simon smirked and after making sure that jace was fully out, turned his attention over to a corner of the room, where a webcam was set up. "well everyone, thanks for watching! hope you all enjoyed seeing me use this shadow slayer as a diaper bitch cum dumpster and don't forget to like the video and comment on other things you wanna see me do to him. this is daddy v signing off." he said. After all, why should Jace be the only one to make a little cash on the side?

the end..for now.

[edierone]

26 and 77 for the mash up list

Five Miles Is a Long Way to Walk In Florsheims

She really did it. 

She — she just pulled over, told me to get out, and — kept on driving. 

I know I was pissing her off this entire case (but especially today), I know I probably (definitely) pushed it too far when I did the vehicular version of Dutch-ovening her just now, a little juvenile humor to lighten the mood … ok, honestly, with the heat on, it was really kind of nauseating, even for me. 

She’s threatened to dump me out before, like a dad yelling at the kids to pipe down or he’ll make ‘em walk home. 

But — this time, she really did it. And here I am, by the side of a two-lane road in the far yonder of cow country, in a cold drizzling rain, in my suit (minus the jacket, which is … still in the car) and cheap dumb dress shoes from JC Penney — thank god I left my Nunn Bush oxfords at home, I guess? — watching the rented Ford’s taillights recede in the far distance.  

I’ll wait a few minutes. She’ll come back. 

Nope. It’s been fifteen already. New plan: Walk till I’m just over that next rise — probably she’s sitting there, waiting for me to catch up, parked on the narrow shoulder with the radio on one of her channels (theory: might’ve been the fourth airing of “Livin’ Lovin’ Maid” that pushed her over the edge; note to self, that’s enough classic rock for today). I’ll show up, she’ll forgive me, and we’ll get back to finding the Phantom Murderin’ Cowboy of BFE. 

*************

Nope. Fox and his tired old dogs are walkin back to Cowburg. 

*************

Five miles is a long way to walk in Florsheims, especially when the seams start to give and your socks are soaked and your hair is in your face and even your belt is ruined. It’s enough time to get titanically self-righteously angry, then run out of steam on that and rethink your position, then feel like utter dogshit for the way you’ve treated the most important person in your life, then script and rehearse your most abject apology speech dozens of times, refining it to remove all traces of self-pity and accusation and adding a few jokey lines so she knows it’s you and not some shapeshifting asshole wearing you as a skin suit or something. 

I’m — I’m properly chastened, is what I’m saying, and all I want is to get back in her good graces. And maybe get some dry clothes on; my balls are rubbed pretty raw at this point. 

Room 27, adjoining room 28, the last two on the end farthest from the road. I start to feel just how bad off I am as I cross the parking lot: I’m freezing, my left knee hurts like a bastard, my ankles feel swollen to the point of sloshiness, my back is killing me, and my feet — oh god, my feet … I limp to good old 27, then realize with a wave of despair that my key is in the pocket of my suit jacket, which I can see crumpled on the floor of the Taurus’s backseat. 

Shit. 

Rather than add “broken rental car window” to my list of crimes and expense items, I gather what’s left of my dignity — there ain’t much — and shuffle over to 28. 

“Knock knock, it’s the bog monster of Black Rock Creek, I’m here to —”

The door swings open so fast I almost fall through it. 

There she is, keys in hand and coat on — that determined/worried little furrow between her eyes quickly smoothing out and hiking skyward as she takes in my bedraggled state. I don’t get a chance to give my apology speech, because she’s already launched into hers: “Jesus, Mulder, you look like a drowned rat! I’m so sorry — I thought it was only a mile or so, but it took you so long, I got worried — you — I was so angry, I guess I just didn’t realize how far it was — oh, look at your shoes! I was coming to get you — god you must be so cold —”

The whole time, she’s dragging me inside, running to the bathroom to grab towels which she tosses at me, bending to help me shuck the worthless bits of leather that used to be size 11 Fed footwear, checking through my sopping-wet hair for head trauma — at least I think that’s what she’s doing, but I don’t really care cause it feels pretty good. 

But I can’t let her do all the apologizing, so all the while, I’m trying to interject with my own mea culpa — about how it’s OK, I’m OK, I was being a dumbass and I deserved it and I’m sorry for questioning her take on the third vic’s cause of death (she was right, I was reaching, and being a dick about it besides), if she wants to Dutch-oven me as revenge, I’ll take it like a man … 

That one finally makes her stop fussing and laugh, her big surprising Scully-laugh that makes me feel like a god for bringing it forth. 

“Mulder …” she finally says, looking me up and down with a mixture of pity and amusement that kinda makes me tingle. “I’ll save that idea for another time. Why don’t you go get a hot shower and I’ll — try to find something to eat. I’m already dressed to go out anyway.” 

I agree to this plan, and in less than an hour, we’re side by side in comfy warm sweatpants on the surprisingly decent couch, eating some of the best tortilla soup I’ve ever tasted. She brought icy cold glass bottles of Coke, too — “Hecho in Mexico, oh man, Scully, that’s the stuff!”

She puts hers down and hops up, going to dig something out of her trench pocket. “I almost forgot! I found something else to warm you up.” She holds it out to me — a pint bottle of Jameson’s. 

“Heyyyyyy!” I reach for it, cracking it open and smelling it. “Where’d you get this? I thought this was a dry county.” 

“It is,” she smiles, with an arch aren’t-I-clever look. “I bought it off the front desk clerk — smelled something on her breath and took the big investigative leap. She charged me a pretty big markup, but I thought it was worth it, under the circumstances.” 

I agree, and ask if we have glasses — but this isn’t the kind of place that furnishes barware, so I guess we’ll have to swig it like a couple of winos under a bridge. 

“I don’t mind swapping spit with you, Scully, if you’re ok with mine,” I say, landing a pretty ill-timed glance at her lips that I hope she doesn’t notice. 

She does. It makes her blush a little, which she brazens through with a big manly belt of the Jameson’s. She hands the bottle to me and dares me with her eyes to do better. 

I can’t, of course, but I try, and as the first gulp slides down my throat, warming me from the inside, I have one of those hot pulses of the deepest kind of affection for her — the kind that just shouts in my head, iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou, so loud that I almost give it voice for real. 

But, of course, I don’t; we finish our dinner, taking occasional nips of whiskey, calling out increasingly sloppy answers at Jeopardy! and then Wheel of Fortune on the crummy motel TV. 

The news is next and neither of us is in the mood, so I click through the five working channels and get lucky: North By Northwest is just starting. I scooch around to get comfortable, but I must’ve stiffened up — both of my hip joints and something up high in my back crack audibly, and the girly scream whistling out of me at the way my calf just seized would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much. 

Well, I guess it’s funny to Scully — she laughs, but apologizes. Then laughs again. She’s ruthless, not to mention mean. I tell her so. She laughs harder. I pout dramatically, and eventually she relents.

“All right, all right — you’ll be useless in the morning if I don’t get you fixed up, and I don’t plan on carrying your bag through DFW airport. Get up on that bed, I’ll massage the kinks out.” 

I swear I do not even have time to open my mouth before she warns, deadly serious: “And if you say one word about this is how some of your favorite movies start —”

Ahh, she knows me, doesn’t she? 

I make like a totally innocent man — pure of heart, mind, and deed — and lie down on my stomach with my feet toward the headboard, propping my chin up on a pillow so I can keep watching the movie. Scully gets to work. 

And she’s good. Got those doctor hands. Whoever’s in 26 must think we’re making the world’s weirdest sex tape in here, or else that we’ve kidnapped a moose that sometimes converses with Cary Grant. 

By the time she gets to my feet, I feel like a melted marshmallow.  

Scully says dreamily, “I remember watching this once somewhere when I was about twelve, and thinking Eve Kendall was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.” I make an inquiring noise. “You know — this scene —”

They’re on the train. Eva Marie Saint’s lookin ol’ Archibald in the eye, telling him she’s twenty-six and unmarried and likes his face, how it’s gonna be a long night, and

“And I don't particularly like the book I've started,” Scully murmurs along. I crane my neck to look back at her; her lips curve upward in the most delicious-looking arc, her eyes twinkling with that sort of mischievous/impressed look she gets toward me sometimes. 

I love it, but it makes me a little jealous, so I tell her so. She just giggles and says, “Oh, don’t be jealous of old crushes!” I want to ask her who’s the crush, Eva Marie or Cary, but she grabs the other pillow and flops down on her stomach beside me and suddenly I can’t talk — I just lie there, grinning like a fool. 

She passes me the one-third-full Jameson’s — one more sip each before she caps it for the night. We watch for awhile longer. During the next commercial break, she turns to me, studying me with a gentle smile.  

“You look a little dopey,” she says fondly, and I laugh. 

“I’m also happy, sleepy, and tipsy — wonder where the other three dwarfs are?”

Her eyes are on the TV again. “Doc … Bashful … Horny …” 

Suddenly my heart is thumping way too hard. When I talk, it comes out softer than I meant it to. “I don’t think ‘Horny’ is one of the original septet, Doc …”

She shifts a little. She’s smiling but she won’t look at me. “Neither is ‘Tipsy,’ but I spotted you that one — fair’s fair, Mulder.”

“Oh, we’re being honest?” Where did this voice come from, the one that makes her shiver? There — just then — she did, she did shiver. I saw it. “Well, maybe there was a Horny. And a Woody, and a — Smitten, and a —”

“I think you better stop there, Prince Charming,” she interrupts, finally half-turning her face toward me. She still won’t make eye contact; maybe she knows, like I do, that if she does that, we don’t stand a chance of keeping this from happening. 

The thing is, I want it to. I have for a long, long time, and I think — so does she, so has she. 

That’s the source of so much of the tension between us; that’s really why we fought earlier, why there’ve been so many of these little flareups lately, embers dropped into dry grass and then stomped out with such vigor. We’ve been careful not to get into situations like this one, where the space separating us is so small that we can feel the other’s exhales on our own skin. 

I drop down from my elbows to lie flat, facing her. I can see her eyelashes silhouetted against the washed-out lights of 1959 onscreen. “Scully,” I say, barely above a whisper. 

It’s a long moment before she finally whispers back, “Not here.”

I know what she means, of course I do. Not on a case, not in a janky motel, not even a little bit under the influence. 

“Then where?” 

She shakes her head, a tiny movement that makes her hair fall forward, obscuring any part of her I could read. 

She doesn’t know? Or she doesn’t want to say? I can’t tell, so I try another question.

“Soon, do you think?”

She tenses, and for a second I think she’s going to get up, or order me out of here. But then she drops her head to the pillow, facing me. Her eyes are huge, serious, full of something unnameable that I nonetheless understand. 

“Soon,” she agrees. 

I nod, nearly overwhelmed by my love for her, the tremendous weight of this moment, the desire that’s been there for so long I don’t remember a time when it wasn’t. 

She reaches to touch my face, skimming lightly along one side, barely barely barely there on my eyelid, so softly; I close my eyes as she traces where she likes. 

Her hand falls eventually, coming to rest in the little valley between us. I take hold of it, gently, risking a glimpse at her. Her eyes are shut now, but I’m not sure she’s asleep. 

“I love you,” I say, but silently, the coward’s way. “So much.” 

If she hears me, it’s only subliminally; that’s all the daring I have tonight. Sweet dreams, Scully, I think as I drift off. Sweet dreams. 

--------------------------

[Thanks for the long-ago prompt, anon -- from the Fic Trope Mashup list, Massage Fic and In Vino Veritas]

[sick-raven]

Ghosts of the Present - Chapter 1

Batman fanfiction

Characters: Jonathan Crane, OC - Miranda Bradbury, Bruce Wayne, John Constantine, Jervis Tetch, Edward Nygma, Clayface, Ra’s al Ghul, Waylon Jones

About: Miranda Bradbury has gotten her life together with help of magic and Jonathan Crane. Now everything seems to go well in her life - she is happy and loved. But as it goes, happiness cannot continue forever. The League of assassins comes in Gotham and Miranda has new reason to fear for her life. Add Jonathan's constant paranoia to the mix, and you get one life-wrecking cocktail.

Author’s note: This story takes place roughly two months after Ghosts of the Past. Without that story it will hardly make sense, so read that one first.

Fair warnings: NSFW, violence, dubcon, less porn than last time, story full of miscommunications

Status: Finished, will post next chapters when in mood.

AO3

Chapter 1

Jonathan found Miranda standing at the window as many times before. As many times before, she looked at him with a faint smile and shook her head. So, he didn’t ask. It’s been two months since her nightmares started. As if the happiness she felt when the ghosts were finally locked up opened door to worse things.

First time she woke up next to him, she scared him. In the middle of the night, with a shout. She was shaking, cold sweat dripping of her face and Jonathan would swear he saw tears. Miranda never cried.

“Are you okay?” Jonathan asked. He had his fair share of nightmares back in the day. Murder of crows. Murder of granny. Her corpse stalking him, telling him he is dirty. That he should be pure in front of God. She will purify him.

He always felt like shit after.

“Yeah,” Miranda would answer massaging her ribs. “Just a nightmare.” Then she would leave to the living room. First few times he went after her and hugged her until the shaking stopped. Later he stayed in bed. He didn’t give up on her.

“It’s not worth it, Jonathan. Get some sleep.”

So, he didn’t comment on it today either. He just made her tea and went about his business. Miranda never told him what haunts her in the dreams and Jonathan didn’t pry. He would hate it, if she did it to him.

Miranda finally joined him at the table.

“Good morning.”

“Is it?” he responded.

“Better. I’m getting used to it. In no time, I will sleep like a baby,” she joked. She always joked when she was lost. That was one of her talents. Another one was she asked for help only when she was truly desperate. Normal things were okay, she always came to him with jar of pickles, as if she wasn’t the muscle in their relationship, but it looked like anything connected to ghosts or her past she grabbed and pulled in. She suffocated it inside herself like a dead rat rotting in her soul. Jonathan felt as if she was more open before Constantine grabbed her ghosts by the neck. The charm bound the ghosts and also Miranda’s tongue. Or maybe he imagined it. Maybe she never was truthful.

“That’s good,” he answered.

Jonathan hated this situation. First, he was psychiatrist. Talking to people was his job. Why was it so hard now? All he needed was to ask what was bothering her. Try to clarify. Sometimes just talking about it can shun away the trouble. Dreams weren’t that difficult to fix. Yet, he couldn’t get himself to try.

Second, he felt useless. He tried to help Miranda before and, in the end, she ran to get help elsewhere. Is this why she doesn’t ask anymore? He is not good enough, he understands mind, not magic. If the ghosts are acting up, he might never know. She would go after that face-stealing freak in trench coat who… who was able to help her, unlike useless Crane.

And third, he was worried. If she was still haunted, no telling what she will do. Her brain was interesting mix of patience, intelligence and blindness. One day she will get killed because she will act out in rush. Another shock like that he wouldn’t stand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he tried.

Miranda, biting her thumb, looked surprised. Then smiled. “I think we should talk about more important things. Are we going formal or formal tonight?”

Very well, he will follow her wishes.

“Armed, but in all politeness.”

“Masks?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t wait,” she grinned. She’s been excited about tonight for a week. Jonathan didn’t understand the appeal, but he was happy to see her smile again.

“Just remember you are a bodyguard,” he reminded her.

“I will not embarrass you in front of the Legion,” she replied.

“Thank you.”

Miranda smiled into her cup. “Sorry I’m a mess. I promise I will get my shit together.”

“I don’t doubt that. Just know I am here to help.”

“Never forgot.”

Somehow, he doubted it.

***

Miranda never doubted Jonathan would hear her out, but what would that help against the reoccurring memory that woke her every night? It wasn’t even one of the worst ones, yet it made her tremble and cry.

Crying was so freeing after emotionless years and yet it made her feel ridiculous. She locked away the bastards, she nearly overdosed on Jonathan’s medication and it snapped something inside her. No more following the League’s training, no more closing herself down. With pain in her heart she let emotions free and… She felt once again. Feeling…

Miranda was sure feelings unlocked her nightmares.

Five or six, that’s how old she was when this happened. The dream showed her scenes, but she remembered more vividly. Every time she woke from it her memory jogged and filled the gaps the dream left uncovered. It eased it and made it worse at the same time as her mind started racing, not allowing her to go back to sleep.

Little girl ran from the kitchen holding a piece of bread she stole. She climbed out of window and aimed up. Roof was the only place she felt safe at. Nobody ever looked for her there. Cold wind and snow were hitting her face as she was getting higher.

Shouting in the house let her know she will be spanked or worse when they find her. But any punishment is fine as long as you face it with full stomach, that’s what she learned. Yelling, beating, the ugly fat fuck and his whips, none of that hurt as bad as starving.

Feeling like a winner she reached the top of the house. Warm feeling in her chest, happy she got away with it again. She wasn’t good for nothing spawn, she could take care of herself!

Master stood there, waiting with cold stare in her brown eyes. Her short black hair showed first signs of grey and that made her look even more strict. The girl froze, her throat stiffened, the fear ran through her spine. Feeling of victory was gone.

“Unbelievable,” said the master in calm voice that she used before punishments. “You are stupider than I thought, girl.”

Master kicked the girl in the face.

The cold surface of roof slipped through girl’s fingers.

Miranda was falling.

She woke up with a scream and loud crack noise in her ears.

You cannot fight memories, you just have to let them weaken. The impact will disappear in time. A question still hoovered over her. How was it so significant that it made her doubt? Just because of this memory she hurt again. Not only herself but also Jonathan. She had ton of memories that shook her bones even awake. Why the fall?

“Stupid girl can’t figure it out, as I expected,” she heard voice of master in her head.

“I would love it if you shut the fuck up,” Miranda answered.

“What?” asked Terry.

Miranda sighed annoyed over herself. “Sorry, just arguing with the voices in my head.”

Terry shook their head. They got used to Miranda’s occasional weird behaviour. She always talked to herself when she thought nobody is looking and sometimes it slipped in front of other people. “Have you considered shrink, boss?” Terry suggested while putting stuffed bears into the shelf.

“Yes.”

“I mean normal one, not your boyfriend.”

“You are on thin ice, Terry.”

“Sorry, just looking after you.”

Miranda stayed quiet, she didn’t want to snap at Terry. After the rough start they got along well. Terry relaxed a bit, Miranda even invited them for dinner at her place. That turned out to be horrible idea, because Jonathan used it as an excuse to interrogate Terry. Person tries to kill you once and he won’t let it go!

“Just poke me when I get lost in thoughts again,” Miranda said.

“Can do. Hey, boss. Would you mind if I took Saturday off?”

Miranda frowned. “Why?”

“I might have a date, if you let me.”

Saturday was the worst possible day. Miranda needed to be someplace else. “Can’t you do Friday?”

“No, sorry.”

Miranda sighed and waved her hand. “But you have to work twice as much today, get it?”

“Thanks, boss!”

“And give me their name so I can make sure they are good for you.”

“No way,” smiled Terry and Miranda relaxed a bit. World was running as it should have. Her stupid nightmares cannot ruin what she built. There is nothing to fear but fear itself, that’s what Jonathan taught her. Saturday was far  enough, she will figure something out.

Now she just has to focus on her evening.

***

“Remember, just a bodyguard,” Jonathan reminded her as they were getting ready to go for the big meeting. Miranda made sure her weapons were well conceived. Getting accused of potentially trying to kill your co-workers was not on the list tonight.

“You say it like last time it was my fault. It takes two to rodeo, you know,” she replied.

“Therefore, I expect you will be the reasonable one today.”

Miranda grinned. Sky will fall before Jonathan accepts any mistake. Even though – could they call it a mistake? Embarrassment for sure, but nothing bad happened!

“I doubt Legion of Doom meeting will have alcohol.”

“Can we not discuss this now?”

Jonathan was awkward about it while Miranda thought it was hilarious. Long story short, two weeks ago there was a party at Iceberg Lounge. Even there Miranda went as a bodyguard. This created one big gossip – Jonathan was always a solo player and now he needs a bodyguard? The worst was Edward Nygma, or, as Gotham called him, the Riddler. The whole evening he walked around Jonathan with stupid comments.

“Has Scarecrow kidnapped a girlfriend?” “Johnny Boy has to pay?” “That potato sack sure brings ladies in.” “Riddle me this, who is scary virgin?”

Miranda was ready to slice his throat, but Jonathan stopped her with the calmest look possible. “It’s okay. Edward stoops to insulting when he runs out of riddles a five-year-old could solve.”

That ended up with both men bickering like two little kids. And then drinking vodka as a peace offering, as they set their differences aside with: “I like your girlfriend,” and: “Your riddles aren’t stupid.” Miranda joined them during fifth or sixth shot, because they insisted the lady cannot fall behind. Arguably, she was the most sober one and she also remembered the most.

Long story shorter – Jonathan and Miranda got pissed drunk and ended up making out by the entrance to the Lounge so pretty much everyone saw them. That finished Jonathan’s tries to take it easy, stay secret, don’t embarrass each other in front of other rouges.

Good thing he didn’t remember the fact they hid in janitor’s closet for a quickie and when they left, Nygma was leaning on an ash tray by the toilets, shitfaced, clapping slowly.

At least he stopped joking around. Miranda wondered whether he remember more than Jonathan. Erasing all security cameras feed next day was the best thing she could do anyways.

So, yes, they should definitely avoid doing this at Legion of Doom meeting.

“Legion meets only so often. If someone needs professional help, a team of specialists. Anyone can find henchmen, but sometimes you need bigger guns. Not anyone can summon the meeting, just few members have that power,” Jonathan explained to her when he got the invitation.

“Do you?”

“Oh no, I am low level. B-list villain, if you will.”

“For me you will always be A league.”

She loved how he smirked at compliments.

So, today was the big day. As they rode in elevator, Miranda got a bit nervous. She’s heard a lot about Legion of Doom. They were villains allied against Justice League. When they did something, it was huge. Who will they meet there? Joker? Luthor? Some other cool guy?

The elevator door opened into a small conference room. Miranda lost her breath. She expected big but not this big.

At the table sit giant man covered in scales. His face was deformed, jaws with sharp teeth covered in blood as if he just returned from lunch and the lunch was live chicken.

Jonathan paid no attention to that abomination. He sat at the table. Miranda followed his example and she stood beside him scanning the rest of the room. Except for giant… crocodile?... there were several of Gotham’s worst. She didn’t recognize everyone – there was Poison Ivy, she looked as if she didn’t want to be here. And Edward Nygma, he smiled and winked at Jonathan when they entered, but he didn’t say a word. The rest of people she didn’t know. There was this small guy in a top hat whose eyes frantically looked around the room. Another one was very plain woman – something Miranda aimed to be, invisible for naked eye. Uninteresting. Maybe they were unknown bodyguard and henchmen like she was. Or they didn’t cause mayhem while she lived in Gotham. Miranda wasn’t here long enough to read about every B-list jerk.

They all sat there in silence for good twenty minutes. Finally, Nygma couldn’t take it anymore.

“Does anyone know who summoned us here?” he said in annoyed tone of voice. “I have more important matters than to sit here.”

“No,” answered Poison Ivy. “Invitation came in normally.”

“Do friends want some tea?” asked the top hat man.

“I don’t have time for this,” grumbled the crocodile man. “I’m hungry!”

“Biscuits?”

“I will bite your head off!”

“Calm down, Waylon. Let’s give it five more minutes,” decided Jonathan.

“In five minutes I will eat your face, crow man!”

“I want to see you try, Croc. I will make you shake and cry like a toddler.”

“Everybody just wait it out,” the uninteresting woman said. “Waiting is part of the big play, to see if we are worth it.”

“Screw that,” Nygma smirked.

Do you see that, Miranda? That’s why bad guys work alone. Only crazy people would force them to cooperate. Jonathan is not insane, if something stupid is suggested, he won’t take it, right? She couldn’t imagine working with neither of these. Maybe Poison Ivy, but her hate towards humans would make the cooperation impossible. She just sat there, arms folded, didn’t join the arguing. Miranda would love to have her indifference right now. Legion of Doom seemed more like Legion of Fools.

The clock was ticking, and it already seemed like they will just give up and leave, when the elevator dinged, and the door opened.

Miranda nearly screamed. It took every muscle and brain cell to force herself to stay calm. Don’t run! Don’t move a fucking muscle, Miranda! shouted voice in her head.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! shouted the other voice.

And between them the master chuckled like some sort of Bond villain.

A man walked in the room. The bickering stopped and everyone was watching him. He stood at the table and looked at every attendant there. Miranda stopped breathing when their eyes met. I will die!

But he continued looking around as if Miranda was just regular part of the room. Just another piece of furniture. Boring.

Calm down, Miranda. He has no idea who you are.

She knew exactly who he was though.

Ra’s al Ghul. The Demon’s head. The leader of the League of assassins.

Miranda looked at Jonathan. He didn’t seem phased by the entrance of one of the most dangerous men alive at all. Frankly, she never told him what organization she used to be part of, but he should also freak out. Everyone should cry for mercy! How are they so calm?

“Finally,” said Edward. “I thought we will die here of boredom.”

What the fuck, Nygma!? Do you want to die!? You should kneel and hope he will not chop your head off!

Calm your tits, Miranda!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

“I apologize for the lateness. Gotham traffic is disgusting, just like this city,” said the Demon’s head. “I will not hold you much longer. I have a job for each of you.”

“Is this job worth calling Legion of Doom meeting?” questioned the plain lady.

“It requires work of you all. It will move the foundation of the city itself. Of course, you will be rewarded if glory and change isn’t on your bucket list. If you mind.” He handed out envelopes to each of them. Jonathan opened his. Miranda felt the need to look over his shoulder. Just a bodyguard! She didn’t do it.

Nygma chuckled. “How do you want to compensate us for this?” he waved the paper. “I’m not your soldier, I am not suicidal.”

“Read it all before asking any questions,” said Ra’s.

With shit-eating grin Nygma read the rest of the letter. His eyes followed the lines of text and lower he got, the more shocked his expression grew.

“What is this shit?” growled Waylon.

“Your task and your reward,” Ra’s stated the obvious. “I am sure you all know what I am offering. No secret stays safe in Gotham. I need your answer now.”

“I’m in,” said Jonathan without a second to think about it. Miranda bit her lip under the mask. In!? He will cooperate with the Demon’s head!? Is he really insane!?

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

“Me too,” agreed Nygma. “I will show him for the last time.”

One after one the rogues agreed to help Ra’s al Ghul. Even the giant crocodile grinned big, his teeth slimy like a fish. “I like easy jobs.”

And Miranda stood there not ready to die.

***

The world was in mist. Miranda’s mind blank. She had no idea how they left the lair or how she got to Jonathan’s place. As if the body wasn’t hers and some outside force was leading her steps.

“So, what do you think about the Legion? Did it fulfil your expectations?”

Miranda blinked.

And ran to the bathroom to throw up

Next chapter

#batman #fanfiction #jonathan crane #writeblr #writing #ghosts of the present #sick raven writing #I just wanted to put Legion of Doom somewhere #so I did

[ifridiot]

Maybe

this fic is, uh, something like six years old? I’ve edited it a little for typos but otherwise it’s not revised. posting for the relaunch of the @ask-the-becile-boys blog.

warnings for swearing, violence, and consideration of self-harm

Some things you can only do alone, in private, with a gun in your hand.

They all know you like guns. Hell, they’d have to be blind not to know, and while your family (for lack of better word, for what is blood to those who have none?) is a lot of things, none of them are blind.

So they know you like them, and they’ve got to know you have at least a couple; Father gave you one for Christ’s sake so it’s not like it’s a big secret.  And there’s only so much you can do about the stench of gunpowder and burning oil from your little… exercises.

What you don’t think they know is how many of them you’ve collected over the years. The Thompson they all know about (Father’s sneering little gift, a nod of acknowledgment to your being his little assistant, his loathsome pet), and maybe about the neat little Schmidt M1882, since you bought it yourself instead of stealing it, paid a whole thirty bucks in some back-alley bargaining when it was new and have treasured the thing ever since.

But about the others, no, you don’t think they know. Hare might have an idea; the little rat’s full of so many half-baked theories about what everyone else thinks and does that it wouldn’t surprise you if he thought you maybe had one or two more. And you know now that he’s got himself convinced that you’re out shooting people, out there killing for that jackass you call Father or Master.

You let him think it. Just like you’ll let him go forever thinking that you kicked his narrow aft to hell and back without regret, that you don’t hate yourself for almost killing the stupid shit in your rage. It’s easier to let him think what he wants because he’ll never understand anything else.

To date, you have collected twenty-six guns of various firing speeds and size. All but the first two you’ve stolen from passed out drunks in bars or plucked from the hands of trigger happy brawlers looking to plug lead into something they can’t kill. A couple you’ve hustled in dark corners of seedy sub-markets, trading or bullying for something you want more than what you’ve already got.

Some of them are tiny things; they feel like toys in your hands for all that they could end a life with a careless gesture. Others are complicated, none quite as powerful as the Trench Sweeper but still intimidating in your grip. You’re particularly pleased with the Winchester M97, the severe click-snap of the pump-action striking a base chord in your processor that’s very much like pleasure.

It’s never been exactly made subtle that you look threatening. Unsmiling, stiffly postured, you look colder than your brothers, quieter and more insidiously menacing. From all three of you violence is expected; you’re thieves and bullies and thugs, and of the trio, it is from you people expect the most evil, for you are quieter, more restrained, clearly calculating while Hare is all direct action and Jacky is a mad whirligig of untamable, unpredictable energy.

In reality, you don’t care enough about most things, most people, to be calculating anything. Hare’s the ambitious thief, plotting ways to put money in his pocket. For you, you’d rather just watch, just remain in the backdrop. Failing that, you have no problem reinforcing the idea that you’re the measured one, the scary one; you keep your silence, photoreceptors boring into the eyes of anyone stupid enough to start staring at you.

But contrary to the image you project of the clean-cut criminal, you’re not looking for a fight. Hare will willingly scrap with anyone stupid enough to pick a fight with a metal man, but you’d just as soon walk away. And even Hare isn’t out looking for the fights, even Hare, who wants so badly to let out some of the aggression that been ground so deep into him it might as well be hardwired, isn’t going to provoke a fight.

Because the truth of it is, you’re not programmed for it. You’re perfectly capable of lying and cheating and hurting if you have to; it’s not going to break you to break them, but nine times out of ten, a glare can suffice, or a puff of dark smoke – hell, a raised fist if you must, but that’s enough to send most humans scurrying. And at the end of the day, you’re all of you cowards. You don’t have the guts to be killers; you’re pickpockets and hoodlums and low-down societal dirt, yeah, but none of you are killers.

It makes you feel just that much more complete to have a gun in your hand.

To be clear, you have no desire to become some mindless weapon, to be pointed and fired. You do not romanticize or moon over the idea of killing humans. The idea is actually in its own right quite repulsive to you.

With a gun in your hand, though, you are not the same automaton who must do as Master Becile wishes. You are not the bot who has come to the realization that the only way to keep your brothers in any semblance of safety is to pretend to be their enemy. With a gun in your hands, you wouldn’t have to watch your creator mete out punishment, knowing that anything you did against him would only worsen the situation. You could stand up for your brothers, finally be really on their side instead of quietly placating and suggesting and politicking your way through your Father’s moods.

“I would kill you in a second,” you growl, voice low and muttering though there is no one to hear you. Your hand snaps out, sweet little Remington clutched against your palm, the crack of gun fire shattering the silence of the evening. The barrel smokes, the bottle your bullet crashes through seems to explode off the fence. Roughly seventy yards between you and the target, and it’s nothing short of perfect. You feel good, but it’s a dark good, muddied with pent up rage, a sort of budding mania that often overtakes you on these little outings.

Fanning the hammer, shots fire rapidly, the line of rusting cans and glass bottles disappearing as they either burst or fly off the fence. The harsh grind of your voice raises with the thunder from the gun, biting out words buried deep inside yourself. “Shoot you down like a rabid mutt.”

The Remington is only a six shot, and you toss it, not quite carelessly, back down when it’s spent and grab another handgun. Though this little piece of land is quiet, out of the way and inhabited only by the occasional vagrant, you’ve never taken out either shotgun, and especially not the Thompson. Besides, power aside, there’s something so much more personal about the handguns.

It’s something about how they explode in your hand, smoke and thunder and the acrid stench of gunpowder; each pull of the trigger like hooks inside you, dragging out emotions you pretend not to have. All the anger, all the rage, all the built-up bitter hatred, ripped from you and screaming through the air, ripping into metal and glass and dispersing into nothingness.

It becomes rhythmic, automatic. Fire, fire, fire; six shots, gun spent, drop, new gun. Begin again.

Shots tear through the little field, rocketing into the targets you’ve meticulously placed on the surrounding fences; on stumps and hanging from the crooked branches of nearby trees. As you fire, you talk to yourself, voice rising and falling. Growling and shouting.

You curse your Father, the only man you ever expected to give a single fuck about you or your brothers. The more anger you pour into your words, the hotter your furnace burns, until you feel fire spitting from your maw with each word. And still you scream. You call him a bastard, you call him selfish; you tell him (though you’ll never say it to him, never in life) you wish he would die, that you wish you could kill him. Why, and you want to know so badly; why build us if you hate us? Why keep us around if we’re such garbage?

The words spew out of you, a vomit of wasted emotion. All your hate, all your rage, every single negative thing that you’ve turned back in on yourself, twisted in your guts like barbed wire. And that’s exactly how it feels, it hurts exactly that much, like you’re wrenching barbed wire from your guts and out your mouth. But it must go on.

At some point around the time you’re picking up the sixteenth gun (Smith and Wesson .32, for what it matters) you realize that the words aren’t so much coming out as words anymore; just an increasingly harsh yelling. Giving in to that is good; no more words, just the energy tearing through you, all the blackness pouring out like the bullets, like the flames.

In the end, by some mistake or some unconscious fluke, you’ve expended every target and you’re left holding a gun with one bullet. The gun is your favorite, that little honey of a murder machine, the Schmidt M1882.

Suddenly the intake of air required to keep oxygen on your flames is ragged, your grip on the gun too tight. Your arm is actually shaking from the exertion of the last fifteen minutes’ shooting, or maybe from the weight of the gun in your hand, and you find yourself staring at your hand, willing your fingers to release or at least slacken, but they don’t.

With measured slowness, as if you must be very careful in the action, you lift the gun, turn it, and press the muzzle against your temple. It’s hot; a perfect circle of heat, and you shudder.

Photoreceptors click off, the gun steadies. Why not? What exactly have you got going on that’s so wonderful? Your father is a selfish, moody prick who cares absolutely nothing for you or your brothers; your brothers, one of whom is as close to a drunk as he can be and hates you, and the other who is glitched beyond help and terrified of you. And you care so little for yourself. You’re nothing, a shadow of a man, not particularly successful in your endeavors to protect your brothers and there isn’t one single thing you can think of to redeem the hateful, horrible things you do in your father’s name. You deserve to eat this bullet just for your little meeting with Hare, even if the rat was looking for punishment.

So why not.

Just why the fuck not?

With a sigh, very soft and rasping with embers and soot, you lower the gun, hand finally relaxing as your photoreceptors click back on.

You sit on the grass and pull out the maintenance kit from the bag in which you stash your little collection, fingers glancing fondly over the barrel of your Winchester, still securely folded away in the bottom of the bag. Before you can go, the guns must all be cleaned, oiled, and reloaded; made ready for the next time your anger reaches a point where it might escape in some other way.

As you clean, you do not think about your actions prior; you content yourself with the repetitive action of breaking the guns down, cleaning, oiling, tending to them. You don’t want to go there. You don’t want to think about what you may or may not have done, even though the smell of your overheated system is accosting your olfactory with the reek of burnt oil. It’s better not to go there, not to try facing it. Bury it, throw all the other dark things in on top of it, and shoot it down later.

Because you are a coward, and you are unjustifiable, and you are too low to bother wasting bullets on.

Because you love life even if yours isn’t worth anything.

Because maybe somewhere in that pit of hate and venom, Becile doesn’t hate you. And maybe Hare will understand one day what you try to do, why you’re the bastard that you are.

Because maybe, just maybe, there’s a point to it. You just have to find it.

#becile bots #the skull #the skull becile #neoma writes

[cchellacat]

Fornication (part 4 of It’s Not A Cuddle)

Love All The Marvel Ships Challenge

Day Eighteen ~ Fighting Side By Side

The rain was coming down hard and fast, sheets of water reducing the already terrible visibility even more.  The sun had set hours ago but the sound of guns and rockets continued, now mixing with the crashing of the thunder in the skies above.  

They’d been pinned down in the trench for most of the day.  The German tanks blocking off their only escape route back to where the allied lines had reformed.  The 107th was in trouble.  They all knew it.  Knew that even if they survived much longer, the way things were going, the way the Germans were successfully pushing back their lines that by the time help might come, they’d either be dead or captured.  

He sat with his back against the wall of mud and dirt trying not to look too closely at the puddles of dark liquid filling the base of the trench.  In the back of his mind he was screaming in horror and revulsion.  How many of his fellows had been killed today? How many comrades in arms, men he had come to call friends had he watched die?  Blown apart by shelling or just brutally cut to ribbons by the tank guns. 

Bucky flicked his lighter absently, staring at the flame as it flickered and died with a sputter in the wet air.  He didn’t know what he wanted anymore, if death perhaps wouldn’t be a kindness, just to escape this hell he was living in.  The Catholic in him raged against the notion of death by design but the practical man in him considered it.  It would be so easy to step out into the no man’s land and just let it happen.  No more running.  No more hiding, like rats in a damn maze, being pushed further and further from safety into whatever trap the enemy had concocted for them.

Impossible as it seemed, it grew darker still, the rain continuing to fall, the sky throwing the occasional strike of lightening accompanied by the deafening roar of thunder.  That’s when it happens, the sky above him cracks open, a whirling blaze of white striking down just yards away. At first, he can’t see a thing, the light has almost blinded him.  Unlike the others who are quickly running from the sudden strike he stays put, too stunned at the event to do more than blink.

That’s when he hears them. Americans from their accents.  A woman and a man.  

“What the hell was that? I swear to Thor I am going to kill Jane! What was she thinking tinkering around with the Bifrost like that?”

“Calm down Doll, it’ll be fine.  You know she never messes up for long, we’ll be back before we know it.”

“This was meant to be a nice vacation, a little trip to Xandar, meet up with Rocket for that pod race and go on a tiny little adventure with the Guardians.  Instead we get rain and mud and….. Oh My Disney, fucking hell pugs!”

“Shit, Darcy, get down now, and keep quiet.”  The mans voice dropped into a low growl and he could just make out the sound of gun being drawn and the wet sound of two bodies hitting dirt.

He stays put even as they crawl towards where he’s waiting, curious to see who the fuck has fallen outta the sky, because it’s the only explanation he can come up with for their sudden appearance.

A moment later a curvy body is dropped into his lap and he catches her without thought, a second later, a large form drops into the trench beside him.  In the darkness he can’t make out their features but the girl squirming in his arms elbows him sharply in the ribs.

“Quit wriggling sweetheart or I’ll drop you in the mud.”  He tells her caustically.  There’s a sharp intake of breath and she locks up tight, every line of her hard and still.

“You drop me in it and you’ll be sleeping on the couch for a month Barnes.”  She hisses at him, digging tiny fingers into his shoulder.

It’s his turn to go still. How the hell does she know his name.

“Because we married her, Punk.”

Up close the man flicks a lighter and Bucky gapes as he is suddenly confronted by his own face looking back at him.

“What to hell is going on?”

The girl wiggles again and in his effort not to drop her his hand slips from her waist, up until he feels the soft brush of the underside of her bust.

“Classy Barnes, I should have known this version of you would cop a feel the first go round too.”

“I was not copping a feel Darcy, I was getting us both out of a bad situation.”  The way he says it is fondly acerbic, like this is some running gag only they know the full story too.

“You still ended up with both hands on my ass.”  She slings back, the feeling that this is a much-replayed argument increases.  Since said ass is currently sitting on his thighs, he’s not sure he can blame the other guy for feeling her up, it’s a great ass.

“Pretty sure you weren’t complaining at the time Sugar.”  The amused huff this draws from her pushes her softness more firmly into his hand and he quickly drops it back to her waist.

In the flickering light of the of the zippo he watches incredulous as the two bicker like and old married couple.

“We are an old married couple.  I’m old and she’s married.”  

“Yeah, married to you, you mook!”  Bucky tries to ignore the way she’s snuggling into him now, not sure whether he should be offended by her sassy comeback to his doppleganger.

“Can you read minds?” He asks as he stares at the man with his face.

“Don’t be an idiot, of course I can’t read minds, I’m you, I remember this.”

The dame, Darcy, finally makes a grabby motion towards his counterpart and he lifts her away from Bucky and onto his own knee.  Bucky lets her go with numb fingers.

Darcy flutters her hand at him in greeting. “Hi, I’m Darcy, sorry about dropping on you like that, but Barnesy here just tossed me in, guess he knew you were there.  Speaking of knowing things, what the fuck babe, why didn’t you tell me about this?”

The guy shrugs and settles her more firmly in his lap rubbing his thumb in soothing circles on her thigh. Completely ignoring him and focusing instead on his girl.

“Was never really sure how good my memory of this was, seemed a bit trippy at the time, thought I’d hit my head or something.”

“When are we anyway?” There’s an undercurrent of something in her tone, like she’s asking something else along with it.

“Somewhere in Italy, 1943 a few days before Azzano.”  The answer given is less teasing and more serious than those before and the two share a look of understanding as she nods before brightening up again.

“Shit, is this going to mess anything up?”  

Bucky wonders how anything can be more messed up than this, trapped in a trench, a few hundred feet away from certain death.

“It’ll be fine Doll, it’s just the Germans.”  He tells her with a tight grin.  She rolls her eyes at him and sticks her tongue out.

Bucky stares at them, at himself, more specifically, with utter astonishment.

“Just the Germans? What the hell is wrong with you?”

They both look at him then, her with a guilty sorrow and him with a grim shrug.

“Chill my dude, I can totes give you some cuddles if you’re feeling upset.”

The way her eyes regard him make him uncomfortable, part of him thinks he would like nothing more than to take her up on the offer.

“Darcy gives the best cuddles.”  His counterpart shares conspiratorially.

“Yes, I do!”  Lifting her chin with pride in her statement leaves him with the urge to laugh.  The playful air is back between the two now and all Bucky can do is watch as the two start making faces at each other.

“Are you two fucking insane?”  If he could, he would have shouted it.

“Jury’s still out.” He’s told in a teasing manner.  “But considering they found me not guilty on grounds of diminished responsibility I guess it’s possible.”

She’s quick to cut in again, ready in an instant to poke fun.  “Oh shut up, there’s not a piece of you that’s diminished in any way!”

Bucky just stares.  It’s finally happened, he’s flipped, had a screw loose, gone crazy, nut’s, insane, was no long in possession of his faculties, turned wako!

He begins to wheeze, hysterical laughter bubbling up.

“I’ve lost it, I’m losing my mind, I’ve finally cracked…”  

The dame looks at him with a little concern and makes a shushing motion as his voice rises.

“Don’t worry Buckeroo, this will all be over before you know it.”  She attempts to comfort him.

“You still got your taser Doll?”  

“Sure I do, there’s four charges left in it, why?”

“Might have to knock him out if doesn’t calm down.”  He drawls mockingly before frowning. “Wait, who did you tase today?  What did I miss?”

“Who do you think?”

“Steve?  What did he do this time?”

“He was laughing.”

“Again?”

“It’s bat shit crazy pants, I swear, ever since he and Carter came back from Russia he keeps smiling.”

“Better than the permeant scowl he’s had on his face since we met.”

“Yeah, nope.  It’s unnatural is what it is.  Rogers has always had a stick up his butt.”

“I Know, I’ve been a little concerned too about the sudden change, but did you have to tase him?”

“He was freaking me out!”

“Twice?”

“He was cackling…. And he winked at me”

“…………..”

“Wait, Steve Rogers?” Bucky pipes up, wondering if they’re talking about his friend.

“You know any other Steve’s?”  Darcy asks with an eye roll.

“Who are you people?”

“We already told you, he’s you and I’m your wife….. we’re from the future.”  She turns back to his counterpart and batts her eyes.  “Aww Barnesy, you were super cute at this age! I just want to pinch your cheeks.”

“You do that and I’ll pinch your cheeks Doll-face” He tells her, running a hand over the curve of her ass threateningly as she giggles.

A loud explosion nearby has them all go quiet and he feels a stab of fear not for himself this time, but for the dame wrapped up in his future self’s arms.  

Older him cocks his head to one side and gives him a considering look.

“You’ve got one job mini me, look after our Doll.  Don’t fuck it up!”  Then he finds himself with an armful of the dame again as he watches himself leave.

She pulls his head down to whisper to him as they try to stay quiet.

“Just so you know, you are getting shit for this stunt when we get home.”

“I didn’t do anything!” He exclaims lowly, while digging around in his pocket for the zippo since his other self has taken off with his.

“Don’t.”  she tells him, placing her hand over his.  “We’ll give away out position with the light.  It’s why you’ve run off right now.  I know you, you wouldn’t leave me behind unless there was a threat needing taking care of.”

He reluctantly repockets the lighter and tries to distract himself from how nice it feels to have her weight back in his lap.  She’s a tiny little thing and strong too from the feel of her, but she has generous curves in all the right places and she smells like apples.  When she tucks her head under his chin he relaxes a little and pulls her in close.  The tiny snort he hears tells him she’s holding back from making a comment.  He almost says something, but the noise of three sets of booted feet jumping into the trench a little way down stops him.

“Shit, I think we’ve got company.”

She motions for him to put her down which he does with reluctance, but she’s right, if they’ve got enemies incoming he has to be able to fight, he grabs his rifle as she settles into a crouch beside him, pulling out an odd looking device from a holster on her waist.

Three men come upon them then, pointing guns.  Bucky gets ready to defend them, bringing up his rifle.  It’s short and bloody, he kills the first, but before he can get the second one, Darcy pulls the trigger on her little device and it shoots out a tiny metal projectile that digs into the skin on the soldiers neck, lighting up a little as he gurgles and drops, eyes growing glassy.  Then she does the same to the second.  Stunned, he watches as this one too, drops down dead.  Before he can say anything, there’s a noise behind him and he swings the gun round, firing immediately.  Another four German soldier have snuck up on them.  The gun jams and he goes for his knife, throwing himself in front of the gun another enemy is bringing to bare on Darcy.  Using him as cover, she shoots the one behind with her taser?  Bucky makes quick work of the soldier he tackled and they both turn as one on the last enemy. He’s not sure who took him down first. Her or him, he falls to the ground dead, a knife lodged in his throat and the smell of ozone from the electrical device Darcy used filling the air.

They stand there panting, truthfully he thinks he’s the one more shaken by the sudden ambush.  He acts out of desperation and pulls her into his arms, running his hands over her body, checking for injuries.  She stands patently as though it’s nothing more than she would expect and when he’s satisfied she’s not hurt he wraps her against his chest and clings to her, burying his face In her hair and breathing in the scent of apples.  

“Barnes……  are you cuddling me?”  

“It’s not a fucking cuddle Doll.”  He tells her stubbornly, his face still pressed into her hair.

“Lewis.”

“What?”

“When you do this, you say ‘S’not a cuddle Lewis.’.  Lewis is my maiden name.”

“I do this a lot?”  He asks sceptically.

She tips her head back and looks up at him.

“I really hope you remember this later…”

Darcy surges up and captures his lips in a hard, desperate kiss. At first he doesn’t know what to do, well he does, but he’s too shocked by the suddenness to do anything more than freeze.

It’s the look on her face that does it to him.  He’s known her for all of maybe an hour, not once in all that time, has she looked anything more than strong and confident.  But she’s still in his arms, her face now looking up at him half apologetic, half embarrassed and he can see clear as day the tiny sliver of hurt, of rejection in her eyes.  It hurts him, deep in a place he didn’t know was still capable of feeling, it hurt.  

He stares into her eyes and brings his hand up to cup her jaw, brushing his thumb under her eye and catching the tear that’s forming before it can fall.  Then his lips are crashing into hers, it’s messy and hungry and urgent. All he can feel is her, pliant and willing as she encourages him, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging on the ends.  He’s losing himself in her with each moan and whimper, his hands traveling over her body, pulling her in and then her hands are moving down, pulling his hips to grind into her and it’s him that gasps and suddenly this is more than just a kiss.  There is a desire, a longing for more.

“Fuck… tell me stop Darcy, tell me to stop.”  He whispers brokenly into her mouth.

“I want this too….  Please, I need you….  Don’t stop…”

He’s too gone to care as he lifts her and steps over the bodies of dead men, down the narrow trench until they find a dugout where the officers had worked.  He has her inside quickly, pulling off his coat and laying it on the rickety table.  She doesn’t protest as he lifts her up so she sits on the edge, she just invites him close, legs opening to him so he can push his hips flush with hers as they kiss eagerly, hands pulling at clothes, till they could touch each other’s skin. He grinds his hardness into the heat between her thighs, rutting into her as she shudders with each press.

There’s no finesse to it, no delicacy, just desperate desire and need driving them both.  His shirt open as she kisses and licks at his chest, her teeth scraping and nipping.  He’s never felt so much want for a woman before in his life.  She kicks off her shoes, and loses no time in helping him pull her legging off, her hands reaching for his belt and making short work of unbuckling it.

Darcy doesn’t stop to think about what they’re about to do, only knows that she needs him, right now. She opens his trousers, shoving them and his boxers down far enough that she can take him in her hand, he’s hard and thick.   The noise he makes as she strokes him firmly, twisting a finger over the head of his cock sends a flood of wetness from her core.  His hands find their way between her legs, long fingers, sweeping between her folds and gathering the wetness, spreading it up until he finds her clit, carefully sliding over the swollen nub in tiny circles.  She can’t think, pushing herself into his hand, needing more, inner muscles clutching uselessly as the ache builds and builds.

“I need you inside me….now.” It’s a command, one he’s happy to follow.

She guides him to her entrance and he sinks inside her slowly, his girth stretching her out, filling her, driving away the agonising ache.  When he’s bottomed out, he stills above her and she wraps her arms around his shoulders as he rests her head against hers.  Their eyes lock and she shudders at the raw emotion and need in them.  She clenches around him and closes her eyes, unable to see the naked desperation there, he pulls back before slamming into her, she cries out at the surge of pleasure dancing up her spine, moving her hips to meet his as he angles his cock to drag against her clit.  She digs her heels into his ass, as he sets a punishing rhythm, with each stoke he pushes deeper until all she can feel is him, deep inside her.  She feels like he’s trying to leave his imprint behind.  

“Look at me Doll, I want to see it, I want to see you fall apart.”

Darcy does as he asks, drowning in his eyes as he continues to thrust within her.

He wants to watch her come undone, she urges him on with her cries, his name a prayer on her lips as she tightens around him, he knows she close’s and he wont let go till she does, he wants to come inside her with her clenching around him.  Wants them to die the little death together as they fuck each other back to life, a reminder that they didn’t die tonight.  A memory for him to carry of this tantalising promise of a future they will share one day.  

She’s right on the edge, he can feel it as her belly clenches and her legs tremble, on his next thrust he changes the angle, impaling her as she shatters, his name shouted brokenly into his neck.  The feel of her walls clamping down drives him to his own peak and he surrenders to the pleasure, cock twitching violently as he fills her.  She flutters around him, milking every drop, back arched, pulling him impossibly deeper.  Her eyes are blown wide in bliss as he continues to rock against her, riding out the wave of orgasm.  He kisses her softly, infusing as much feeling as he can into it.  They don’t let go, continuing to cling to each other, he feels safe there, cradled between her hips.  This feels like salvation, hope.

“I love you.”  The softest whisper comes from her lips and he clutches her in close, bodies completely entwined, unable to say what he feels, unable to put it into words.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to say it back.”

The reassurance in her tone doesn’t make him feel guilty as he thinks it should.  He doesn’t want to leave her warmth, but they can’t stay like this forever.  He eases out of her, choking back a sob at the loss.  Darcy runs soothing hands over his arms and helps him re dress.  He helps her too as she slips back into her clothes, kneeling down to slide her shoes back on while she stayes perched on the table he just fucked her on.  Part of him feels ashamed for taking her like that, fast and hard in a dirty hole in the ground.  She deserves better than that.  

He’s still shaking from the adrenalin when he sits down on a low bench, near breathless from everything, the fight, the fucking…  the words she’s said.

Darcy climbs onto his lap and he folds her into an embrace, holding her carefully, like the treasure he knows she is.  

“Now this is a fucking cuddle.”  He tells her with the barest hint of amusement, letting her tinkling laugh wash over him as they both calm down.

It’s near dawn when his counterpart shows up, covered in mud and blood and tells them it’s time to go.

He leads them back to where the light first struck last night, on the ground are glowing markings in a circle. They seem to brighten as they get closer.  Darcy runs ahead a little, running round the emblem, inspecting it.

“There’s a safe line back towards last base now.  I took out four tanks last night and two battalions.  You can get your men back to Azzano safely.”

“How the hell…”

“Don’t ask.”  He tells him shortly.  “You got her for one night.  Don’t forget it, you’re going to need that memory, it’s exactly the promise you think it is.  And when you find her again?  Pick her up and run.”

“Pick her up and run?”

“You know what she is to us.”

“She’s ours.”

“Just as much as we are hers.  Take her and run and never look back, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.  Everything that happens, she makes it worth it.”

Bucky swallows thickly. The future looks a little less bright than it did.  Figures, there’s nothing that comes for free in this life, it’s all bought with blood and pain.  

Darcy darts up and hugs him, kissing him quickly with a shy smile and he squeezes her hand.

“I can’t wait to meet you Doll.”

Darcy grins at him and then joins his other self on the glowing marks.

“Hey!  Bucky, it’s Lewis, Darcy Lewis, don’t forget me for too long!”

Then the sky opens up again and the whirl of colour whisks them away as though they were never there.

Bucky waits a few minutes, watching as the marks burned into the ground fade and are consumed by the mud. Then he walks away, back to find what’s left of his men and lead them back towards Azzano.

   NEXT

       @captain-rogers-beard

#love all the marvel ships #love all the marvel ships challenge #wintershock #bucky/darcy #darcy/bucky #lemons #it's not a cuddle

[kitstwistfellau]

Bucket List

This fic has two versions.

The first version, on AO3, contains triggering content. Link can be found HERE, but please mind yourself. 

The version under the cut is trigger-free. It is a nice, fluffy fic, and it shouldn’t give you any trouble. The listed tags and pairings are for the fic posted below. The AO3 version has its own tags and triggers posted.

Summary: There's so much to do once they reach the surface. And Twist wants to try everything.

Pairings: Very, very mild Cash/Twist and Twist/Slim.

Tags: Twist-centric, fluff, mild warning for brief skydiving. Background sads if you consider what a Bucket List is and why Twist has one.

-

Edge sighed, staring at the fourth attempt at a cake. He ran a hand down his face, while Twist just studied it, puzzled. “So…what’d I do wrong?”

“Well I think being born was likely your first mistake.”

“Hey! I was created in a lab, an’ I think ya know that.”

Edge sighed, rubbing the space between his sockets. “Are you quite certain you don’t just want to let me make the cake?”

“No!” Twist said, and Edge raised a brow-bone. Twist rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “Sorry, darlin’. But, uh, this is import’nt, yeah?”

Edge sighed. “Fine. Let’s try this again. For the fifth time.”

Twist, infuriatingly, beamed at him.

-

“Hey, sweetheart, ya ever thought ‘bout goin’ skydivin’?”

“…you’re joking, right?”

“So tha’s a no?”

“twist. that’s an emphatic ‘no’ with a series of exclamation marks at the end of it.”

“…Oh. Well. Uh…so now that ya’ve thought ‘bout it, ya think maybe ya’d be in’erested? Hey. Hey! Rus? Where’re ya goin’?”

-

“Hey, darlin’? If ya could go anywhere in the world…where would ya go?”

Red blinked, taking a pull on his beer. “dunno. haven’ thought ‘bout it much, i guess.”

Staring up the ceiling, Twist said. “There’re so many places up ‘ere. So many things ta see, ya know? An’ not half ‘nough time ta see ‘em all.”

Red just grunted. “so where’d you go, then? if ya could go anywhere?”

“The moon,” Twist said, dead serious. Red chuckled and Twist cracked a grin. “Not sure. Ev’rest would be cool ta see. Fun ta climb, too.”

Red laughed. “you an’ me got different definitions ‘a ‘fun’.”

Twist glanced at him and winked, clinking his beer against Red’s. “Not always, sweetheart. Not always.” For a little while, he was quiet, then he asked, “If ya could fuck anyone in the world, who would it be?”

-

Twist sat beside Slim, watching his fingers move over the keys. “So…how d’ya do this, darlin’? Where do I put my fingers?”

Slim smiled serenely and stilled his hands. “here. like this.” Twist laid his hands overtop his and waited.

“Right. Now what?”

Slim chuckled. “we’ll start with something simple.” He slowly moved his fingers over the board, and Twist followed him doggedly, a hesitant rendition of ‘Hot Cross Buns’ sounding out. Slim pulled his hands away. “now do it on your own.”

Twist nodded and took a breath, fingers playing over the keys. “Like this?”

“yeah. like that. you’re doing really good.” Slim smiled softly, and Twist beamed, a rumbling purr rattling his bones.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Fer, ya know, teachin’ me. ‘preciate it.”

“of course. i’m…i’m happy to.” Slim blushed as he said it, and for a moment, they were both aware of how close they were sitting, aware of the warmth of the monster beside them. Then Twist cleared his throat and returned his attention to the piano.

“So…I jus’ keep doin’ this, or…?”

“oh. right. um. here. let me get the sheet music. you’ll, uh, you’ll need to know how to read it.”

-

“Hey, Pap. Got a question fer ya.”

“OH! HELLO, TWISTED ME. WHAT CAN I HELP YOU WITH?”

“Ya wanna go ta Washington with me? ‘pparently there’re monsters up ‘ere that never got driven Underground. They’re shy, though. Wanna see if I can draw ‘em out. Ya know. Make friends.”

“THAT’S AN EXCELLENT IDEA! AS AMBASSADOR, IT IS MY DUTY—NAY! MY PLEASURE TO FIND THESE MONSTERS AND REUNITE THEM WITH THEIR PEOPLE!”

“Sweet. Pack a bag. Plane leaves in…” He checked his watch. “Five hours.”

-

“Heya, darlin’!”

Cash just glared at him and went back to reading his newspaper. Twist scooted closer. Cash scooted away. Twist scooted closer again, and Cash was out of room on the couch. He didn’t say anything until Twist was close enough to put his chin on Cash’s shoulder and say, almost directly into his acoustic meatus, “Whatcha doin’?”

“trying not to lose my patience. what do you want?”

“You’re inta gamblin’ an’ shit, right? A real high roller?”

Cash’s interest was peaked, but he tried not to show it. “you could say that, yes.”

“…So would ya be in’erested in goin’ ta Vegas with me? Got tickets to a magic show.” Cash shook out the newspaper, turning the page. “But tha’s more my thing than yers, I bet. Reserved the penthouse suite at….” He tilted his head back. “The Bellagio? Yeah. That sounds right. Figured tha’s a lot a space fer little ol’ me. More’n enough room fer a friend.” Cash glanced at him, brow-bone raised.

“twist. i’ve seen your pay check. how the fuck did you—?”

Twist smiled slowly and raised a hand, holding up Cash’s wallet. “Right. Yeah. So. Might’ve misspoke b’fore. You reserved a room at the Bellagio. Rented a convertible too, fer the trip out that way. Pretty little thing. Real smooth ride. Should—“

“you little—!” Cash snatched his wallet back and glared at him. Twist just grinned, somehow managing to look innocent after committing actual theft. He flipped through his wallet to make sure he hadn’t stolen anything else. “you picked my pocket?! when?”

Twist shrugged. “Sorry, sweetheart. You c’n take the rat outta the gutter, but ya can’t take the gutter outta the rat, I guess.”

Cash shook his head…but he was eyeing Twist with calculation now. “…yeah. i bet. and i bet a gutter-rat like you has more than a few tricks up his sleeve.”

A slow smile spread across Twist’s face, and he indeed produced a coin from seemingly nowhere. “Yeah. Ya could say that, darlin’.”

Cash grunted, looking between Twist and his recovered wallet. It had been ages since someone had rolled him like that. He could put those talents to good use. Especially in a place like Vegas. With another calculated look, he declared, “fine. but you’re sleeping on the floor.”

“Aw, darlin’—“ But a particularly harsh glare silenced him. It didn’t wipe the smug grin off his face, though.

-

Blue looked between Twist and the long trench filled with hot coals. He could feel the heat radiating off of them. “I’m not so sure about this.”

“Aw, c’mon, darlin’. Ya ain’t havin’ second thoughts are ya?”

Blue took a breath. “Second thoughts, yes. And third thoughts. Maybe even fourth thoughts.”

Twist leaned down, planting his hands on Blue’s shoulders. “Ya remember what they said durin’ class, yeah? Jus’ keep walkin’ an’ stay calm. Don’ run. Don’ rush it, and don’ stop no matter what. Here. I’ll go first, if it’ll make ya feel better ‘bout it.”

Blue shook his head. “No. No. I can do it. Just. Give me a moment.” He took a deep breath, and started across, blocking out Twist’s encouraging shouts.

At the end of the trench, when his bare feet were back on cool grass, all his breath left him in a rush and a huge grin lit up his face. He ran to his brother—watching anxiously from the sidelines—and hugged him, chattering excitedly while they watched Twist walk across the coals himself. A huge smile lit his face, and he joined them soon enough, laughing as he lifted them both off the ground in a celebratory hug.

-

Red grinned as he opened the mailbox, pulling out the latest series of post cards. There was one with a picture of Mount Everest on the front. The others were all places he couldn’t recognize, the caption on the bottom of the card little more than gibberish to his uneducated sockets. The back of each card was filled with Twist’s shockingly neat writing, narrating his journey across Nepal and the Himalayas.

He brought the cards inside, reading the backs as he drank his morning cup of coffee. Smiling to himself, he pinned the fresh batch of post cards to the corkboard. There was already a collage of similar cards from all over the world pinned to it.

Maybe Twist was right. Maybe there wasn’t enough time to see everything, but damn if the crazy fucker wasn’t trying his best.

-

“how did you talk me into this?” Rus demanded, knees shaking as the door of the plane was thrown open.

“Same way I talked my way inta bed with Cash. Persistence.”

Rus blinked. “…what?”

But Twist was grinning as his jump partner strapped him into the tandem harness. The instructor was reminding Rus that he would be just fine. He didn’t have to do anything—just let his jump partner do all the work. His soul pounded, terrified. But Twist and his partner were already out the door, and now everyone was looking at him and—

They.

They were.

Falling!

Rus swore at the top of his voice all the way down, the wind whipping his words away until even he couldn’t hear what he was saying. His soul only settled marginally when the parachute deployed and—after the initial jerk against the harness—they started to drift down at a more leisurely pace. When they landed, though, his knees were shaking and, if not for his flight partner, he’d likely have allowed himself to slip bonelessly to the ground in gratitude.

Twist, infuriatingly, was laughing recklessly and swearing in pure, undiluted joy. “Fuck yeah! Yes! Fucking hell!” Manic grin in place, he looked back at Rus and said, “We’ve gotta do that again.”

Rus, speechless, gave him both middle fingers—dissatisfied when Twist’s only response was another joyous whoop.

-

“Next time, ya wanna try Jersey? Heard there’s a monster out that way with a real nasty reputation. Poor guy’s prob’ly jus’ lonely.”

“HMMM. I SUPPOSE.” Papyrus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “BUT I THINK WE SHOULD DO MORE RESEARCH NEXT TIME. I’M NOT SURE THE LOCALS TOOK OUR QUEST VERY SERIOUSLY. AND I’M QUITE CERTAIN ‘BIGFOOT’ IS SOME KIND OF PEJORATIVE.”

Twist nodded seriously. “Yeah. Yer prob’ly right. Can’t say I’d be all that keen ta come say ‘hi’ if someone was yellin’ racial slurs at me either. Can’t really blame the poor guy.”

Papyrus patted him on the back. “I KNOW YOU’RE DISAPPOINTED, TWISTED-ME, BUT WE DID LEAVE THEM SOME BROCHURES! I’M CERTAIN THEY’LL CALL US ONCE THEY REALIZE OUR INTENTIONS ARE ONLY GOOD.”

He brightened at that. “Yeah. Yeah!” He knocked his shoulder against Papyrus’. “Thanks, darlin’. Ya always know jus’ what ta say.”

Papyrus beamed. “NOW…JERSEY, YOU SAY?”

-

Twist’s fingers played across the keys. He stumbled in a few places, and he hit a few wrong notes, but the melody was recognizable, and his playing was soft and sweet—at odds with the look of intense concentration on his face. The song came to an end and he sat back, features inscrutable.

“something wrong?” Slim asked.

“…This is hard, sweetheart. Harder’n I expected.”

Slim nodded sagely. “yeah.” He sat beside Twist and, nudging him to make room, set his hands on the keys. His fingers flowed over the board, smooth and easy. He relaxed into it, smiling softly. “it takes time.”

“Time,” Twist echoed. “Yeah.”

Slim eyed him. “twist?”

He shook his head, his smile returning—just as bright as always. “Show me how it goes again?”

For a moment, Slim hesitated, tempted to push him. Instead, he shook away his unease and set about showing Twist how the song was played once more.

-

Smiling proudly, Twist carried the cake out to the dining room, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at the top of his voice. Never mind that neither of them actually knew what day they’d been ‘born’. It was the thought that mattered. Blackberry was smiling and kicking his feet, pleased to be the center of attention. The others stood around the table, singing as well. Carefully, Twist set the cake on the table, soul warming when Blackberry leaned over the table to blow out the candles as the song came to an end.

He studied the cake. “Oh, wow, Edge you really outdid yourself this time! This is beautiful!”

“I didn’t make it,” Edge said, a very slight smile softening his features almost imperceptibly.

Blackberry cocked his head. “Blue?” Blue shook his head too. “Um…did you…buy…it?” They all shook their heads. “Then…who…?” Twist smiled and winked at his brother, pretending not to be hurt when Blackberry’s face fell a little. “Papy? You…? Really?”

“Yep!” Twist said, chin lifted. “Wan’ed ta su’prise ya.”

Blackberry did a remarkable job of hiding his disappointment. “Oh, Papy—you didn’t have to do that!” he said, voice bright.

“I know but….” He scuffed a foot against the floor. “Was important ta me. Dunno why. Jus’. Wan’ed ta do it.”

Blackberry’s smile grew more genuine. “Aw. Papy….”

“would someone just cut the fucking cake?” Cash asked gruffly. “you two are making me sick.”

Edge calmly cuffed him, earning a glare and a rude gesture. “Blackberry? Would you care to do the honors?”

Nodding eagerly, Blackberry grabbed the knife and—leaning away from the cake—cut through the frosting and the sponge. The smell of chocolate wafted through the air, rich and heady. When the cake failed to explode, Blackberry leaned close and observed, “Oh, wow. It looks…it looks really good, Papy!” He didn’t quite manage to hide his surprise, but Twist couldn’t exactly blame him for that.

“Hopefully it tastes good, too,” Twist said, scratching at the back of his neck. After several long sessions with Edge, he’d finally managed to consistently produce a cake that wasn’t just edible but tasted good. Still, Edge hadn’t been there to help him out this time. He might have fucked it up without the other skeleton around to monitor his progress.

“I’M SURE IT’S DELICIOUS, TWISTED-ME.” No one really commented on that, but there were a few uneasy glances exchanged. Edge, however, just stared back at him coolly and…confidently? Somehow, that made Twist’s shoulders relax marginally.

“Well?” Edge said, “You’re the guest of honor, Blackberry. It only seems fair you get the first bite.”

Blackberry hesitated, but ultimately nodded. “Yes! You’re…You’re absolutely right! As the birthday boy I am obligated—honored to have the first piece!”

He beamed at his brother, but Twist could see the strain in his cheekbones and around his sockets. He cut a piece of cake—a small piece, given Blackberry’s usual opinion that more was better—and set it on a plate. Daintily, he used a fork to cut a small piece away. He lifted the fork, holding it in front of his face as if to study it before putting it in his mouth. Smiling uneasily, he eyed Twist and, with a nearly imperceptible fortifying breath, took a bite.

His sockets went wide and his pupils burst into stars. Still holding the fork, he asked, “Papy? You made this? Really?”

Soul pounding so hard he could nearly hear it echoing in his skull, Twist nodded eagerly, breathing still a little unsteady. “So it’s...it’s good?”

“Good?” Blackberry asked, “It’s incredible!”

Twist didn’t doubt his word. The hesitance and traces of uneasiness were all gone. He cheerfully cut the rest of the cake and split it amongst the other guests, making sure to give himself another—more generous—slice. And when Twist took the first bite, his bones went limp with relief. He wasn’t exactly a fan of chocolate, but he knew that this was what the cake was supposed to taste like—sweet but not cloying, rich and moist.

Soul still fluttering in a mix of relief and adrenaline, he looked up and caught Edge’s socket—and grinned fiercely when Edge offered him a nearly imperceptible nod of approval.

#twistfell #twist papyrus #swap papyrus #fell papyrus #fell sans #swap sans #twist sans #sf papyrus #swell papyrus #casa #twistedmoney #mapletwist

[mauriacs]

In Memoriam: Alfred Goodall

{This is the true [and short] story of my great-great-uncle and his time in World War. I’ve tried to stay as close to what I’ve been told as possible, and I also haven’t proofread it, so good luck ;-;. Words: 2500 or something}

@james-saintvincent @aislirn @mezihvezdne @athenca

The [Extremely Short but True] Story of Alfred Goodall

He lied about his age to get into the trenches – probably out of fear of multiple things. Out of fear of what image it would give his family (a mentally and physically eligible son, not out fighting for his country?); out of fear that, if anything were to happen to them, he might never know what did happen to his Da and brothers if he wasn’t there to see it with this own two eyes; out of fear that he would never leave Sydenham, or at least London, and he would never get to see the sun rise in a different country – no matter the horrors going on in it.

The recruiting officer had raised an eyebrow as Alf’s voice broke on the first hello, and his family had been shocked, to say the least, but eventually, he and the rest of his regiment found their way into France. And sure, he did get to see the sunrise there – but through the eye-holes of his gas mask. Sure – he did see his Da and Art and William, but only visiting a heavily injured, hospitalised Art whose greetings swiftly turned into awful, hacking coughs (gas, you see). And his family now had all the possible male figures in the war, but all he could think about was how scared they must be; back home, all the way in fucking Sydenham.

At some point, he went over the top. Despite his previous excitement about ‘getting some of the action’, his visit to the hospital to see Art had turned these thoughts on their head. He was bloody terrified – but it wasn’t as if he could turn around and run. In his mind, he was condemned to die either way he went, so he might as well forge forth into the mud-and-blood-bath spreading before him. Somehow, the first time, he managed to make it back to the trench – and despite the scuttering rats and the piss-poor conditions, he had never felt more grateful. He thanked God that night.

However, at some point in late 1917, there was no God on his side, it appeared, as he watched first his friends and then his own leg crumble and cripple around him. There was no God on his side as his fall was broken by the squelching mud and his scream drowned by the same sounds surrounding him.

He lay there in the crump-hole, for what seemed like an age, waiting for the ‘bright light’ to shine over and collect him into where-ever he was going to go, After. Nothing appeared. The only change seemed to be that the guns had moved away slightly, and the pain in his leg had gotten much worse. The only things surrounding him were the corpses (Oh god, oh god, oh god) caught in the painful, unforgiving barbed wire and, of course, the deep, swallowing mud.

Later, just as the sun changed positions and the moon began to take its place, a voice broke into his feverish reverie. It was yelling-- something? Had the bullet-wound already been infected? Was it affecting his brain? Why couldn’t he—oh. This man was not speaking English. He recognised, after a few months of overhearing the language, German. Alf stayed as still as he could (not that he could move much anyway) and hoped to God – who wasn’t being very helpful recently, but it was worth a shot – that the Squarehead didn’t go near him.

His wishes were not granted as a heavy boot come down on his equally as heavy, although much worse quality boot, and he swore in pain.

“Ow- shit!”

The German bloke leapt back in shock and reached for the gun at his side, before dropping his hands, and taking a step away. Their eyes met as Fritz looked at him, almost contemplatively, before turning tail and heading towards the German trenches.

Alf was almost disappointed. He was now most likely to die in solitude, after a long, torturous infection, and his body would be slowly consumed by the mud underneath him. A bullet to the brain would be quick, easy, painless – and at least one person would be there to see him die, even if it was the man who killed him. But that was the way it was supposed to go – if it was the other way around, he would shoot a German soldier. That was what he was s’posed to do, wasn’t it? Shoot the Hun. But, thinking about it, if he came across an injured, helpless Gerrie, would he be able to put him out of his memory – like a retired racehorse. (He’d watched his father shoot a horse once when he was 6. He’d cried all night.)

No, if he was being honest with himself, he didn’t think he could. Shoot an injured man. Or a racehorse, for that matter. He could easily kill a man who was trying to kill him – like he did, both times he went over the top. But if one looked him in the eye, his skin dyed with his own blood… he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

He resigned himself to his fate, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see the sunrise again – the one thing he so wished to see, before he signed up. The backs of his eyelids were a much better view than a landscape of regret.

A voice – no, The Voice, the same voice as before, made his eyes open and widen again. Christ – had he gone back to collect his friends? Were they going to shoot him to death? Had Fritz gone back specifically to collect a weapon to kill him with? Was a gun not enough? He squeezed his eyes shut and begged that neither of these scenarios was the case.

A hand began roughly shaking his shoulder (no, no, no, get off, I don’t want to be killed by you and your friends, kindly fuck off) – “Hallo? Hallo?”

He had a tiny inkling of what that meant, but he really didn’t care as the pain in his leg was becoming unbearable with the movement in his upper body, and he wrenched his eyes open to – Oh. The German man from before was crouched beside him, holding a… was that a flask? He gestured the flask towards Alf, and mimed drinking it.

With nothing left to lose, in his opinion, he allowed Fritz to bring the flask to his mouth and – it was cold coffee. He couldn’t care less if it was laced with a fast-acting poison; it tasted like the best thing he’d ever had in all his 18 years of being. He drank every-last-bloody-drop in that flask and, as he laid back into the mud, assessed both the situation and the man in front of him. This was, by far, the most surreal thing that had ever happened to him – wedged in a muddy crater in the ground, a hole in his leg from a German bullet, drinking cold coffee from a German flask, belonging to a German soldier, in the middle of the bloodiest war in the history of Europe – against the Germans.

The bloke before him – or ‘Fritz’ as Alf had christened him – was wearing one of them spiky helmets the Hun had and had a neat little moustache nestled under his nose. He searched the man’s eyes for any sign of maliciousness, any hint that he was waiting for some sign of poison in Alf – he wanted to see the evil image that he’d been provided with for the past few years. God, maybe he just wasn’t that observant, but it looked like all Fritz had wanted to do was feed him some cold coffee. There was a little, almost hopeful smile on the man’s face – and Alf, through all his shock, managed to force one out too. It might’ve looked too much like a grimace, as, with a nod in his general direction and a widening smile, Fritz turned tail in the direction of the Gerrie trench.

Alf’s head fell back into the dirt, and he stared up at the crescent moon as it illuminated the night-sky. He could have cried; he could have thanked God; he could swear as loud as he could at everyone and everything who would listen. Instead, he contemplated: why had Fritz done this? Alf would, unquestionably, be dead very soon – from either infection or a misplaced shell, so why? Certainly not to prolong his suffering. He considered – this man (this man who had a family, a life, a home) had crept out of the mild safety of his trench all for the short-lived welfare of an injured British soldier; he had literally put his life on the line so a dying 18-year-old from Sydenham, South-East London’s final taste would not be the blood of his tongue as he bit it to balance the pain of his leg. No, it would be some cold coffee, given to him by the simple hand of human kindness.

With this, Alf slipped into sleep, his dreams permeated with horror and sadness – with occasional interjections of calm. The calm of home, of the sight of his mother embroidering by the fire, of cricket with Art and Will on summer days, of anything but this bloody war. Slowly, the infection in his leg began to catch up with his brain as the dreams spiralled into fevered nightmares and the images of home rapidly dissipated.

In this fever, he could make out the feeling of rough hands, tugging him onto something that was definitely not No-Man’s Mud. There were faces above him that looked like they were floating – none of them the kind man from before (oh what was his name again?), but all of them looking down at him and conversation-ing in the same tone, the same language. He tried to move his head, but his body refused to cooperate and, rather, decided to send the wont of movement down to the hole in his leg (he recalled a shriek of pain, and then yet another spiral into the nightmarish lands of before). A hand came over his face, covering his mouth with a dirty rag, and his eyes rolled back into his skull.

--

He awoke to the sensation of a dull throbbing in his left leg – the injured leg. He hadn’t died; or if he had, and he was in heaven, God had a lot to answer for. His eyes focused on the ceiling above him (ceiling?) and then, wildly taking in everything around him.

A hospital.

And— Gordon Bennet. This was not a British hospital.

--

A hunching man in a white coat came to talk to Alf, in fragmented English that he could only just understand. As far as he could tell, they’d amputated his leg (he’d whipped back the covers at this point, and looked at the stump that was left, his chest gripping with the familiar pressure or fear) at the knee.

“That- that’s not the knee.” His knee was decidedly not there, and neither was anything three inches above it. His hands shook as they surrounded the remainder of the limb, not wanting to touch it, not wanting it to be real.

He had gangrene, the doctor had said. It had spread above the knee, where they had cut first, and they had to go higher. But look on the bloody bright side, he’d been informed – they’d make him an aluminium prosthetic, with a fixed knee so he could just about walk. It didn’t take away from the fact that his left leg was not there.

He asked for a lot at that hospital (he thought he’d earned it – they’d put in the bullet that had made them take his leg) – not that most of the people there could understand him. He asked for the man, the soldier who’d crept out with cold coffee in the dead of night. It was a bit of a lost cause, really, as the entire Hun had ‘them helmets’ and half of them had moustaches; and, course, you couldn’t really ask them to find a man who had ‘kind eyes’.

Alf asked for his family, in the dead of night, when he was alone with his thoughts and everything was silent (‘part from the pained groans of the injured men around him). There was no way of communicating to the Germans who he was, and there was no way they’d deliver him. He really wasn’t sure how long it would be until he saw them – if he saw them. The Gerries could win the war, and then he’d be in a bit of a bloody predicament. They probably thought he was dead, what with not getting a letter for God knows how long. MIA. That’s what he was.

He asked for books, or magazines, or newspapers – in English of course. Anything that would keep him from thinking about... well, everything. The Red Cross had donated some magazines to the Germans a while back, and so he stuck to them. They were full of the news of five or six years ago and were a good distraction from the world around him.

Turning over the page of one of them, his eyes scanned the adverts on the back page – Cedar Polish, Pyrex, Robinsons Patent Barley…

“Holy shit. Nurse!”

The Robinsons Patent Barley advert, as he was so desperately trying to communicate to the nurse, was the same one his family’d done, back in the day – he’d said they were well known in the area, and the company had picked up on it and picked them to do a baby food advert for the magazine, and holy shit indeed.

His own face, albeit younger and more naïve than now, was staring up at him from the dog-eared page. His entire family was in the image, proudly brandishing the Patent Barley as if they used it – and underneath!

Pictured: The Goodall Family, Sydenham, South-East London, SE26 4RJ

Gesticulating wildly to anyone that would listen, Alf pointed to his own face, and then to the face on the page, and repeated this until he was understood – his heart was bursting with a hope he had not felt since the day of recruitment.

--

Eventually, they got it all sorted out. Alf was offered a swap with the Red Cross – one of the German Prisoners of War for him. Repatriated.

Alf drilled holes in that massive, clunky leg as soon as he was home so he could move it and it wasn’t just a deadweight. He even fixed the chain on his bike so he could cycle down to his work at the Beulah Hill Telephone Exchange, and then when he retired, around anywhere he wanted to. Free to go, free to stay.

And even though Art returned with heavy, laboured breathing and no sight in one eye and Will had to be sent down to Seale Hayne, and his Da returned much angrier and much jumpier than before, not one word came out of his mouth that spoke ill of the Germans.

Every November 11th, right up until the day he drew his last breath, he didn’t just remember the others in his regiment, or his family. He thought about the man in the white coat who’d sat there, essentially informing him that he’d saved his life while Alf fumed and raged; the men who’d carried him from that crump-hole in the middle of No-Man’s-Land; the nurse who’d calmed him down and listened to him as he madly gestured at the magazine. Most of all, he thought about the hopeful smile on the face of a man he would never see again as they looked at each other, Alf futilely searching for ill-nature - and the simple meaning in that offering of cold coffee.

#uuuuh thanks #for reading #u don't have to like it but I though the story was too good to not share

[thehoneyjournal]

Skidbladnir, the Finest Ship of the Aesir

Your vision fades to black, the faint sounds of your companions turning pages of their books lulling you into the trance that comes with the spell. Before your vision clears, you hear the sound of gulls crying out, the endless wash of the ocean’s waves, and the sound of a song reaches your ears as the darkness begins to recede, and you realize you’re standing on the deck of a square rigged, fat hulled trading vessel. The shanty continues unabated, the sailors not at all talented but giving it their all.

“Come all you young sailor men, listen to me I'll sing you a song of the fish in the sea

And its windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys When the wind blows, we're all together, boys Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes

Up jumps the eel with his slippery tail Climbs up aloft and reefs the topsail

And its windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys When the wind blows, we're all together, boys Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes

And then up jumps the shark with his nine rows of teeth Saying, "You eat the dough boys, and I'll eat the beef!"

And its windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys When the wind blows, we're all together, boys Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes

Up jumps the whale, the largest of all "If you want any wind, well, I'll blow ye a squall"

And its windy weather, boys, stormy weather, boys When the wind blows, we're all together, boys Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds, blow Jolly sou'wester, boys, steady she goes!”

The song ends to rousing, raucous laughter, and you watch as for the next several minutes the crew scrambles about their duties, the sails humming in the strong, constant breeze emanating from the south. After about a half an hour of watching the men work, a voice shouts from the top of the mast.

“Oy, Cap’n! Sails on the horizon, Sou-sou-west! White sails, with a blue trident!”

A well-dressed elven man steps forward into your view, resplendent in a blue and green trench coat that clashes awfully with an orange tricorner hat. He snaps out a retractable spyglass, and you watch as the blood drains from his angular elven features. His voice, however, remains fairly clam as he turns out to the crew.

“Everyone, you will need to move more quickly than you ever have before today. First mate Olina will relay my orders. You are to perform precisely as I instruct. Is that clear?”

The captain begins relaying his orders through a small half orc woman to his left, whose booming voice is utterly incongruous with her small frame. As you watch, the crew in less then twenty minutes runs out a new flag, unfurls an additional small sail on an attachable, smaller mast at the bow of the ship, the ship begins to plow through the waves, kicking up more and more spray. You drift over to the captain at the stern of the vessel, looking for this other ship, and just barely in your vision is a wisp of sail with a bright blue trident. It seems to be rapidly closing the distance with the current ship you’re on, growing larger as you look at it. The captain and his first mate are discussing in low voices, and you drift over to eavesdrop.

“It’s him. You know it is. And we can’t outrun him. You’re just buying time, and not much. What’s the plan here, captain?” Olina says.

“I’m thinking. Shut up and let me think,” the elf growls, rubbing his forehead with a knuckle. After a moment he raises his head.

“Tell them to grab their swords and hand crossbows. Run out the Ballistae and secure them with pitch and torches ready should we need. Get Gilberto ready with materials for his transmutation magic. Maybe we can get lucky and transform our cargo into something innocuous.”

“Done,” the half orc growls, before perfectly relaying every order the captain gave at ear splitting, profanity ridden volumes. You watch as 8 Ballistae are rolled onto each side of the ship, their bolts loaded and winched back, the actual ballistae themselves sinking into the floor slightly, immobilizing their wheels in the wooden deck below. A human man appears on deck, blinking in the sun, clad in threadbare brown and grey robes. After about a half hour of watching this flurry of activity, you turn to look for the sails behind you, but cannot make them out. A moment later, you hear the voice from the crow’s nest again.

“Cap’n! Sails aren’t there anymore! I think we lost em!”

The elf frowns, clearly unconvinced.

“Keep a close- “

WHUMP. CRACK.

You spin around at the noise, and see an incredibly strange sight. A well-dressed Halfling man in fine, what looks to be silk clothing, stands on the deck, a rakish half smile on his lips. In one hand, lazily held against his person by a leather belt, is an odd device. A wooden handle, carved with a trident, attaches to a metal frame, a cylinder with 6 small holes in it. A long thin metal tube extends in front of the cylinder, poking through the halfling’s belt. The man steps forward, revealing a cracked and splintered piece of wood behind him, before sweeping into an ostentatious bow, his green cap being swept off his head. A low but perfectly audible voice emerges, light, carefree, but brimming with a very real sense of danger that makes you try to take a step back involuntarily.

“I greet you, crew and captain of the smuggling vessel known as the Black Rat. Word has reached the Lady of Geldorcraft that you have been engaging in cargo runs of a more nefarious sort, more recently. If you would not mind, as her instrument upon the high seas, may I inspect your vessel?”

The dry mouth breathing of the captain is audible. The halfling’s position hasn’t changed, but you watch as his hand slowly drifts upwards, removing the oddly shaped piece of metal and wood from his belt. As his hand begins to move, the captain steps forward, raising his hands.

“Good sir, we have only the usual cargo of spices and other herbs that we are taking to the good continental colony of Begrunsburg. While this is not strictly speaking legal by the laws of sea trade, I would ask that you humbly allow us to complete our journey safely before confiscating such cargo.”

The halfling thinks for a moment, his foot tapping against the deck of the ship. In one fluid motion he draws the device from his belt, the barrel glowing with a faint blue light as he points it at the captain.

“I think you’re going to show me the cargo. I think you’re going to show me the hidey hole you had built in this vessel downstairs between the first and second ballistae on the starboard side of the ship. And I think you’re going to explain to me why I just talked to a corpse on the bottom of the ocean two days past who swears that your crew boarded them, slaughtered them, then took their cargo and left.”

The captain’s face twitches, before he suddenly and violently turns to the side, vomiting loudly for a few seconds. The halfling rolls his eyes, his attention slackening, and he begins to turn away, opening his mouth as if to speak. The captain pops back up behind the rail suddenly, drawing a hand crossbow in one fluid, fast motion.

CRACK.

Where the captain’s head once was is a smoking crater, bits of meat and skull scattered about the ship’s stern. The halfling sighs, blowing a bit of smoke away from the barrel of his weapon, which had just produced a bright blue bolt of electricity, lancing out unbelievably quickly, leaving a scorch mark in the railing that the captain had been using. It appeared to your eyes that the halfling had been able to turn, sight, and fire before the captain even drew his weapon. The halfling eyes the rest of the crew, who are noticeably angered by his action.

“Lads, I wouldn’t do anything hasty. You know who I serve. She wouldn’t let you all within 100 miles of the sea if you were to kill one of her chosen heroes, now would she? Besides…. It looks like you’re all outnumbered now anyways.

A shadow falls over the ship, and you watch as the sailors of the pirate vessel look up, their mouths and faces going slack with fear and wonder. Hanging above you in the air is a magnificent longship, forty oars to a side, two sails, floating in the air silently. You watch as ropes begin to fly down, sailors sliding down them with practiced ease, drawing fine rapiers, cutlasses, and hand crossbows, methodically and professionally disarming the pirate vessels crew members. They outnumber the smuggler’s crew by almost two to one. After a bit, they begin bringing up gold, jewels, and other valuable cargo from below. The halfling bows to the crew of the pirate ship.

“Now then, my lads and ladies. We have taken only the cargo that you have taken first. It will be given to the families of the men and women you killed and drowned two days ago. Additionally, a charm has been placed on this vessel. It will take you to the colony you stated you were heading to, but if you try and change course, it will sink this ship. The authorities of that colony have been contacted via sending stone. Have a nice day.”

The halfling grabs a rope, scaling it hand over hand incredibly quickly. You watch as the ship begins to silently float higher into the air before the sails unfurl after a shouted word in Halfling, and it escapes into the sunlit air, disappearing behind a bank of clouds. After a moment you hear the half orc’s voice growl out.

“I fucking hate Bjorn Ironsides and that fucking Ship.”

#legend lore #Found Lore #worldbuilding

[such-a-common-girl]

“You’re My It” Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1,475

Dean Winchester x Reader

Request:  Could you write one (or more) about Dean? Where the reader is Dean's ex but she got pregnant before the broke up. And Sam or Cas see her and the kid one day and tell Dean, who gets drunk and shows up at her door (with a little help from sweet Cas)?

Warnings: Angst, fluff

Flashbacks are in italics.

You and Dean had officially been together for a year now, but unofficially, it’d been almost your entire life. You were Bobby’s daughter- you grew up together. There had always been something there.

A few years ago, when Dean was cured from being a demon, you were the first person he wanted to tell. That made him realize that he didn’t want to wait any longer. He wanted to be with you one hundred percent. He loved you. He had asked you to be his girlfriend officially last year.

You’re now standing in your kitchen, finishing up making dinner for your one year anniversary. It’s been a rocky road, and lately, it’s been worse. He’s been distant and gone more, and you admit that you’d grown more emotional and needy. It’s only because you’re pregnant, but Dean doesn’t know that yet. You’re planning on telling him tonight. All you want is a good night with your boyfriend, is that too hard to ask for?

No, it’s not. Which is why you’re busting your ass to make this anniversary perfect. You’re making his favorite dinner, rented his favorite movie, and even found the cutest way to announce your pregnancy. You’re sure he’ll take it well, and that he’ll be excited. His dad was a big part of his life, and one time when he got drunk he had told you that whenever he became a dad he was determined to be a better one.

“Y/N?” A voice came through the door, keys clinking together. Dean’s home.

“Hey babe, I’m in the kitchen!” You call out.

Dean comes into the kitchen, and he looks dead tired. You can see it in his eyes- he’s worn out. He’s stressed, but of course he doesn’t talk to you about it. He doesn’t talk to you about anything lately.

“Is this all for me?” His eyes widen, wandering around the room.

“Yeah, happy one year.” You kiss his cheek.

“Oh.” He furrows his brows. Your stomach sinks. Of course he forgot.

“You seriously forgot?” Your mouth drops a little, sadness filling your heart.

“I’m sorry.” He sighs. “Look, Y/N…”

“What?” You’re afraid of what he’s going to say. You’ve been feeling it coming for a while, you’ll admit. But now? Tonight? All you can do is hope that he doesn’t.

“I just… I don’t think this, us, is working. You know I love you, but I just think we need some time apart. There’s a lot of shit happening right now, with Lucifer and Chuck and Amara, I just… I can’t. I’m sorry.” Dean says, a look in his eyes you can’t quite read.

You’re silent. There it was. Those words you’ve been dreading.

“Okay.” You say quietly.

“I love you. I just need time.” Dean repeated.

-

You’re now walking down the street of the mall, you’re favorite place to go. The mall in Denver was outside, which made it easier to not only enjoy the warm weather, but to push around baby Nina. She loved going on “walks,” which made it easy for you since you loved shopping.

After Dean broke up with you two years ago, you didn’t even bother telling him you were pregnant. If he was too stressed and busy to deal with you, the girl who’d practically been with him his entire life, he certainly couldn’t handle a baby. So, after you moved out of the bunker, you packed up and moved to a city you’d never even been to before- Denver. You moved into a small apartment, and got a decent job.

Baby Nina is now a year old, and she’s the cutest little thing. She inherited Dean’s looks, right down to the sparking green eyes. She’s beautiful.

You’re about to go into Victoria’s Secret when you see a man down the street staring at you intensely. He has brown hair and a…trench coat?

“Cas?” You say out, not believing your eyes. You haven’t seen Cas since who knows how long. It was before yours and Dean’s breakup, since he was possessed by Lucifer. Actually, now that you think of it, you have no idea how that turned out. He could still be Lucifer for all you know.

Cas is suddenly standing beside you, an unreadable expression on his face. You can tell by just looking at him that this was Cas, and not Lucifer.

“Oh my god, I’ve missed you.” You hug him. He stands stiff, but wraps one arm around you after a few minutes.

“Who is this?” Cas looks down at the stroller at Nina, who is now sleeping peacefully.

“Oh. This…” You trail off. There’s no point in lying. “This is my daughter.”

“And she’s Dean’s?”

“Please don’t tell him.” You beg. “He left, it was his choice. He left me.”

“Y/N…”

“Cas, promise me.”

“I… I promise.” Cas sighs.

-

After the encounter with Castiel, you went back to your apartment quickly. That blast into the past was enough for you for the day. It brought back memories you thought you had put behind you.

Nina had just fallen asleep in her crib for the night, so you were finally free to do whatever. You walk into your kitchen, grabbing a beer out of the fridge. God knows you need one. You walk over to your living room, turning on the TV to watch whatever was on. Anything would do right now, you just wanted to escape your mind.

You were getting really into the trashy reality TV show that was playing when it happened. He showed up. There was a knocking on the door, and you didn’t even bother to look through the peephole. It was probably just your landlord.

You opened the door, and there he was. Dean. You hadn’t seen him since that night. He hasn’t aged one bit, if anything, he looks better. He looks younger, less stressed than he was before. He looked amazing. Of course he did. He’s Dean.

“Cas ratted me out, didn’t he?” You were the first to speak.

“Can I meet her?” He says quietly. You nodded, and let him inside.

You walk him into her bedroom, and he audibly gasps when he sees her. He walks slowly over to her crib, as if he walked any faster a bomb would go off. He takes her hand in his, and a soft smile grows on his face.

“She looks like me.” He whispers. It was dark in the room, but you could swear you saw a tear fall down his cheek.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna give you some time.” Your voice comes out shakier than you were wanting, and you exit the room. You walk over to your couch, and sit down shakily. You have no idea what you’re going to tell him.

A few minutes later, Dean comes out of her bedroom. He looks hurt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He says, sitting down next to you on the couch.

“I was going to. The night you left me.” You whisper. “But then after that… You couldn’t handle being a father. You were dealing with Amara, for God’s sake.”

“I’m so sorry.” He says, taking you by surprise. Why was he sorry? “I shouldn’t have done that. I let everything that was happening leak into my relationship with you. I messed up. This is all my fault. And now I have a daughter that I don’t even know because of it.” He choked out.

“Dean, its fine. I was mad at first, but seriously, I’ve let it go. I understand now.” You say truthfully.

“Y/N, I still love you, you know that right?” Dean says, a serious look on his face. “After everything was fixed, you were the one person I wanted to come to. But I thought that I couldn’t. I couldn’t face you, not after what I did. I’m hurting, Y/N, I need you. I need to be there for Nina.”

“Dean…”

“I love you so much. You’re it- you’re it for me. You and Nina. You’re my life now. Please, let me be here for you. If you can ever forgive me.”

“I forgave you a long time ago.” A weak smile on your face forms. “I love you too.”

Dean kisses you, so softly that you almost thought your mind was playing tricks on you. You bring your hands around his head, bringing him in closer. You missed this, you missed him.

“You’re my it, too, Dean.”

#dean winchester #dean x reader #castiel #castiel x reader #sam winchester #supernatural imagine #supernatural #spn #spn imagine #one shot #fanfiction #pregnant #fluff #angst