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sunsetcurveofficial · 3 years

Note

So with the prompt thing, can you do the bedhead one with Ruke? Would much appreciate it lol

oh my god. i am SO sorry, love. i swear i did not mean to ignore you. tumblr must have eaten your message, because i genuinely did not see it until today. here it is, though, and it’s extra long to make up for it. hope you like it. xx

also available on ao3

“Your bed head is really cute.”

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

Luke has always had messy hair. No matter how often he tries to fix it throughout the day, somehow a few minutes later it always looks dishevelled again. But here’s the thing. Reggie loves Luke’s messy hair. He would never admit it, of course, but the messier Luke’s hair is, the more he enjoys watching him. So, naturally, he’s also taken it upon himself to ruffle it whenever he gets a chance. Luke always swats his hands away, shoves him, and glares as he tries to fix it again, but Reggie merely laughs and definitely does not think about how cute Luke looks. Luke is his friend and Reggie loves messing with him. That’s all, honestly. It’s all fun and games until Reggie wakes up next to him for the first time, anyway.

His parents were fighting again, so Reggie snuck out in the middle of the night and showed up at the first place that came to mind. Luke’s. And Luke hugged him, didn’t make him talk, and they listened to music together until they fell asleep. Together. In Luke’s bed.

So, Reggie is a little disoriented when he wakes up with his head somehow nestled under Luke’s arm, one of his own slung around his friend’s waist. He feels something flutter in his chest when he realises, and it gets even worse when he notices how warm and comfortable he is. He never thought about sharing a bed with Luke before, and much less waking up next to him, but he finds that he actually made it through without any nightmares for once, instead feeling like he is exactly where he should be, which hasn’t happened in a very long time. It’s nice.

Luke blinks his eyes open shortly after, grinning the moment he spots Reggie, who still has his face squished against a pillow under Luke’s arm. He hasn’t removed his own arm from Luke’s body either.

“Morning, bro,” Luke says around a yawn, reaching out to flick Reggie’s nose. He scrunches it up, wiping a hand over it when Luke draws his hand back and laughs. He sits up to look at the time, and Reggie follows suit, his arm dropping from Luke’s waist, albeit a little regrettably. His eyes wander over his friend as Luke turns back to him to inform him that it’s just past 10am, and he can’t help it. He giggles delightedly as he takes in the way Luke’s hair looks even wilder than he has ever seen it before. Not even after a gig. It’s standing up in every direction, the strands falling into his eyes and looking twice as voluminous as usual. He looks adorable. Reggie does realise that’s an odd thought to have about your bro, but he can’t help it.

Luke frowns, self-consciously scratching at the back of head as Reggie keeps eyeing him, giggles erupting from his chest.

“What?” Luke asks, running a hand over his mouth. “Did I drool in my sleep or something?”

Reggie shakes his head.

“No. Sorry. It’s just… your bed head is really cute.”

He blushes the moment the words leave his mouth and he can’t believe he actually said that. Surely Luke will never let him live that one down. Luke’s blush is almost more adorable than his bed hair, and Reggie figures he should probably have a good think about what exactly it is he’s feeling for Luke. It’s not normal to find your best bro quite so cute, is it?

“Cute?” Luke asks, voice so high pitched it almost sounds like a shriek. “I’m not cute.” He pouts.

Reggie can’t help it. How is he supposed to just shrug it off when Luke is sitting right there next to him looking like a kicked puppy that is most certainly cute, even if he tries to be all cool and intimidating most of the time.

“Duh huh. Yeah, you are,” Reggie says, because now that it’s out he might as well just roll with it.

“Am not,” Luke insists, and Reggie kind of really wants to kiss the pout off his face. Okay, right. He definitely needs to talk to Alex.

In hindsight, Reggie really doesn’t know why he does it. He’s not even that impulsive of a person. If anything, Luke is the impulsive one of the two. And he’s a little horrified at himself when he leans in and kisses the tip of Luke’s nose. He blushes when he draws back, and kind of wants the ground to swallow him whole, but Luke looks so startled, his beautiful eyes so wide and his cheeks so red that Reggie feels a little comforted and manages to shrug it off with a grin. He’s done it, he can’t take it back, so he might as well pretend to be confident about it.

Luke keeps sitting there mumbling something like “What the hell, bro?” under his breath and stares at him even as Reggie gets dressed. He really needs to talk to Alex.

“You can close your mouth now, Luke. Otherwise you might accidentally swallow a fly or something,” Reggie says with a grin, running a hand through his hair in front of the mirror to fix his own bed head. Luke does close his mouth, but keeps sitting there looking flustered. Reggie has never seen him like that before, and it does all sorts of funny things to his chest. The mighty Luke Patterson, finally brought to his knees by Reggie Peter’s strange new impulsiveness. Huh.

“I’m gonna go meet Alex. See you later, babe,” Reggie tells him, and he swears Luke’s jaw drops right open again. Babe? Honestly, Reggie is on fire today.

+++

“Reg? What are you doing here? It’s 11am!” Alex says when he opens the door. Reggie half walked, half ran to get to his house, so he feels slightly out of breath. He thinks he probably looks a little disheveled as well, if Alex’s worried look is anything to go by.

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Not sure,” Reggie manages to say, panting a little. “Maybe?”

Alex narrows his eyes at him.

“Okay? Well, come in. We can talk in my room.”

He leads Reggie inside and up to his room. Reggie feels the questions bubbling under his skin, itching to get out, so he jumps right into it as soon as Alex’s door is closed behind them.

“Do you think Luke’s messy hair is cute?” he asks. Alex looks a little taken aback, a faint blush growing on his cheeks.

“I mean… yeah? It’s cute enough. Why?”

“Because I think it’s cute. But that’s not normal, is it? I mean, I think about it constantly. And this morning I woke up next to him because my parents fought last night, and— have you seen his bed head?”

Alex tilts his head, something like recognition reaching his eyes as he watches Reggie pace as he keeps rambling about Luke’s hair. Reggie pauses for a moment to frown at him, but jumps right back in when the itching gets too bad. “So, I told him it’s cute. And I don’t know why I did that, because it’s weird, right? And Luke pouted, you know, that adorable puppy pout of his? Well, and then I found myself thinking that I would very much like to kiss it off, and that’s— I mean, that can’t be— What does it mean, Alex? I’m kinda freaking out a little bit.”

Alex snorts, and his frown is replaced by an amused look and a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Reggie finds it a little irritating. Alex should just tell him what it all means instead of smiling like he knows something Reggie doesn’t.

“I can see that,” Alex says dryly. Reggie wants to kick him. “Well, Reg. It sounds like you got a crush on Luke, dude.”

Reggie doesn’t have a crush on Luke. Luke is not a girl. Therefore Reggie can’t have a crush on him. Can he? No, wait. That’s a stupid thought to have. Alex is a boy who exclusively has crushes on other boys. Reggie thinks it over for a moment. He remembers Luke’s hair. He remembers sleeping in his arms. He remembers his pout, and his big hazel eyes. He also remembers his voice, and the way he gets all excited when he writes music. Or worse, when he plays his guitar on stage. Okay. So he does have a crush on Luke. That’s new. And interesting.

“Oh,” he says. “I have a crush on Luke? Oh my god! I have a crush on Luke! I’m gay, too?”

Alex chuckles fondly. Reggie is a little offended about his amusement while he’s having a sexuality crisis, thank you very much.

“I don’t think you are, bro. You still like girls, don’t you?”

Reggie thinks that over for a moment as well and comes to the conclusion that yes, he definitely does.

“Yes. But how can that…?”

Alex shrugs.

“You can like whoever you want, Reg. Like Bowie. He says he’s bisexual, because he likes both men and women.”

Reggie’s eyes light up. Like Bowie? He’s like David Bowie? Well, that’s pretty neat, he thinks.

“I didn’t even know that was a thing!” he says, smiling delightedly. “I’d love to be more like Bowie. Ha! Bowie, man!”

Alex smiles happily, getting up from his bed to pull Reggie into a hug.

“I’m glad you told me, bro. Finally someone to talk about boys with!”

Reggie laughs. He likes that prospect.

“Oh my god! Yes. Thank you for helping me figure it out, Alex. I’m a little terrified, I think, but it’s cool. I’ve got you.”

Alex shoves him playfully, his eyes searching Reggie’s as he puts his knowing grin back on.

“So what are you gonna do about Luke?” he asks. In his excitement, Reggie has almost forgotten about him. Even though Luke is the sole reason why he’s at Alex’s in the first place, and Luke generally doesn’t have a tendency to leave Reggie’s mind for extended periods of time.

“Luke! That’s right. Oh. Well… you think he might like me back?”

Reggie isn’t so sure. They couldn’t all like boys, could they? He isn’t sure why he thinks that, though. And Luke blushed rather adorably earlier, after all.

“I think your chances are better than you think,” Alex says, and Reggie swears he knows something he doesn’t again, “You gotta tell him, dude!”

Reggie hums.

“I mean… he did get really flustered when I accidentally kissed him on the nose this morning,” he muses. Alex raises his eyebrows at him.

“You accidentally…” He snorts. “Only you, Reg.”

+++

Luke is already at the studio when Reggie arrives for practice that afternoon. Alex and Bobby aren’t there yet, and Luke blushes the moment he sees Reggie. Grinning, Reggie walks right over to him and presses a smooch to his cheek.

“Hi, babe,” he says casually. Luke visibly splutters, looking even more flustered than he did in the morning, and Reggie absolutely revels in it.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Luke squeaks, nearly dropping his guitar as he tries to place it on its stand. Reggie shrugs.

“Because I like it. And you are. A babe, I mean.”

Luke looks like his head is about to explode, he’s blushing that hard. It’s the funniest thing Reggie has ever seen, because Luke Patterson is nothing if not confident. His nonchalance, however, is nowhere to be found now.

“Wh— what?”

Reggie grins and steps closer, right into Luke’s space. Their noses are almost touching, and Luke’s eyes are impossibly wide when Reggie meets them. He can feel his breath on his lips.

“Would you mind if I kissed you?” he asks. He doesn’t know when he became the confident one between the two, but he’s enjoying it way more than he should, probably.

“What?” Luke squeaks again, and Reggie really has to force himself to hold back until Luke gives his consent. Reggie doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable. “Why?”

Reggie chuckles and nudges his nose against Luke’s. The other boy doesn’t back off, and he takes that as a good sign.

“Because I like you, man. Very much so. And it’s not just because I think your bed head is cute, although that is a bonus.”

Luke kisses him. Well, that was easier than he expected. Reggie’s hands come up to Luke’s hair as he kisses him back, starting out softly but quickly becoming a little more frantic as they’re both pushing and pulling at each other. It seems that Luke is regaining his confidence, and Reggie likes that just as much as he likes him all flustered.

“You haven’t seen your bed head, babe,” Luke breathes as he pulls away after what feels like a blissful eternity. Luke emphasises the pet name, and Reggie chuckles, feeling himself blush a little for change today.

“So, are we in love, then?” Reggie asks bluntly. He figures there is no point in beating around the bush. The more he looks at Luke looking all kissed and dishevelled, especially his hair that Reggie managed to mess up just perfectly, the more he knows that he is so in love with his best friend, and he doesn’t understand why he didn’t realise it before.

Luke laughs out loud, looking fond as he reaches out to pat Reggie’s cheek.

“Yes, you dork. We are so in love.”

And then he kisses him again, and it’s the best thing in the world. They only part when Alex and Bobby appear in the studio, one of them hooting while the other makes gagging noises. Reggie doesn’t care all that much. He keeps his eyes locked on Luke for the entirety of their rehearsal, his chest fluttering when he remembers why Luke’s hair looks especially messy today, and that he’s directly responsible for it.

It’s even better when Luke meets his eyes and smiles back at him, though.

- End. -

#peterpatter #ruke #julie and the phantoms #jatp fic #my fic #my writing #sun-set-swerve

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imagineaworlds · 3 years

Text

I Love You (Part Sixty) -- Aaron Hotchner

Written By: @desperately-bisexual

Request: None.

Warnings: Cursing. Panic attack. Character death. Alcoholism. Drugging(s). Physical trauma. Explosion(s). I think that’s it?

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Nonbinary!Greenaway!Reader

Word Count: 9574

Timeline: Season 8 Episodes 24. Right after part fifty-nine.

Criminal Minds Discord Server

It wasn’t like any other panic attack I ever had. For some reason, the really bad ones only came about when I was really worried about Hotch, like after the bombing in New York when I thought he was literally dying in my arms. This time around, though, I think I was just… paralyzed. I was staring at the wall, the sheets pulled up to my chin, a ringing in my ears, flashing memories of that night back in high school. Those pictures. These pictures. What made The Replicator any different than Steven Teller? A chill ran down my spine. I hadn’t connected his name to what had actually happened to me until my parents brought him up at Hotch’s birthday dinner. I would’ve gone my whole life trying to forget his name if they hadn’t said it, if Hotch hadn’t asked about him, and if Garcia hadn’t called to tell us that someone else had pictures of me now.

Who had seen them besides Garcia? Morgan? Spencer? Morgan would’ve understood because he knew about the true nature of the original photos—hell, he was the one who stumbled upon them in Rebecca Bryant’s apartment, so he had even seen them; but I didn’t want it to be Reid. The two of us were so close now since Maeve’s death. If he saw something like that, he would get all awkward around me and our friendship would slowly fall apart, and instead of letting me into his apartment every Sunday now, he would just let Scarlet in again like he originally did.

I didn’t understand who this guy was. How had Garcia been investigating it enough for Hotch to know exactly what she was talking about, yet I was completely out of the loop? Was I the only one who didn’t know? Why didn’t Hotch tell me about this sooner—if I would’ve known that there was someone out there watching us, I would have never gone on this “vacation”, and I would have made sure that we weren’t being followed, I would’ve closed the fucking drapes. The drapes.

Hotch pushed himself out of bed and ran to the window. “We need to make sure everyone’s safe,” he muttered under his breath.

“Hotch, who is The Replicator…” I croaked.

“He might have gone after the others.”

“Hotch, answer me!”

“Later.”

“He has pictures of us, Aaron…” I croaked as he closed the drapes.

We had left them open because we were so high up, and the lights were off, and the surrounding buildings shouldn’t’ve had a good view into our room. Closing the drapes just didn’t occur to us earlier. But now that we knew he had been watching, we weren’t taking a chance. Not that it mattered. He had already seen everything. From Hotch slowly undressing me, to tying me up, spanking me, torturing me… fucking me. That asshole got a free show, and then he had the audacity to send those images to our friends. Poor Penelope. She was probably mortified. Between getting hacked and having to see literal porn of her co-worker and her boss, she was likely having a meltdown. Yet, all I could think about was how this all reminded me of high school—of the images that boy took of me then used as blackmail against me. It was eerily similar. I absolutely fucking hated it.

“Call everyone, Y/N. Call them now.”

We both raced for our phones. Hotch called Rossi while I started with Reid. I was biting at my fingers nervously as the phone rang, because every second that passed without hearing his voice just somehow convinced me that something was wrong. And then he picked up. I let out a sigh of relief and hid my face in my free hand.

“Y/N?” He had no clue what was going on. “Y/N, what is it?”

I hated that he was getting as good at recognizing my tells as Morgan was. “Where are you?”

“I’m with Morgan. We’re driving back from getting some food. Did you know that you can get sauerkraut on hotdogs? It’s such an odd concoction, considering the hotdog was invented—”

“Spencer, something happened.”

He stopped. “What?”

“You and Morgan need to get back to the Field Office immediately. Don’t stop anywhere, don’t talk to anyone, keep your heads down. Got it?”

“Y/N, what is it? Why—”

“I don’t know… Hotch isn’t telling me right now, but he says he’ll explain everything once we’re all together.”

“Okay. We’ll see you there.” I looked at Hotch as I hung up and he came back into the bedroom, dressed in a button down and slacks again so that it could pass as business formal, considering we hadn’t brought actual work clothes. “Where’s Rossi?”

“He’s with JJ. They can’t get ahold of Strauss, so JJ’s going to head to the Field Office to meet up with Spencer and Morgan while Rossi goes to check on Strauss at her hotel. We need to get dressed and go.”

“Stop,” I demanded harshly. Hotch froze in place. “You need to tell me the truth now. Who is The Replicator?” He was still frozen. “Hotch,” I crawled onto my knees, “he went after our babies, and he took pornographic pictures of us. I have every right to know before the team does.”

Hotch sighed and sat down on the corner of the bed as he explained everything to me. A couple of months ago, something peculiar started happening. Someone was replicating the cases that we were solving—everything from the human marionettes to an Unsub who had exsanguinated his victims. Strauss didn’t want the team to get involved yet, though, so it was a need-to-know case only. I wasn’t on the list. Every time it happened. Strauss found out and told Hotch. The two of them had been keeping an eye on it, and he was convinced that she was going to turn the case over to us soon, but now he was coming after us personally, which was so… unexpected to him.

Rossi called back while Hotch was telling me everything. Hotch rubbed a thumb over the arch of my foot as he answered. “You’re sure?” he asked worriedly. “Alright. Okay. We’re on our way.” He hung up. “Rossi’s convinced that something happened to Strauss… He thinks that The Replicator might have taken her.”

“Fucking hell, Aaron!” I jumped out of bed and ran to change into different clothes. The only thing I had that was “appropriate” was a v-neck and jeans. So much for our vacation. “We should’ve known about this earlier!” I exclaimed, jumping into my pants. “It’s just another lie—”

“Jesus, Y/N! Stop with the hounding about the lies! Get off my back! This was an order, not a lie!”

Actually, he was right about that one. “Fine…” I grabbed my credentials, my weapon, and my bag before joining Hotch at the door. “You’re right.” I kissed him quickly. “I’m sorry.” He closed the door behind us, and we ran off.

In the car, Hotch and I held hands, both of us shaking anxiously. His thumb was doing circles around one of my knuckles while he kept his other hand busy on the steering wheel, tapping to a random beat in his head that he was using as a distraction. He clearly didn’t know what to do with himself. He hadn’t expected that The Replicator would go for us personally—though, if he had come to me with this case before this, I would have told him that this was going to happen, and we could have prevented it.

If I would have known that this guy existed in the first place, Hotch would’ve had to drag me out of the house and to work just to leave Jack and Scarlet. I wouldn’t have sent them to school, I wouldn’t have left them to go on vacation, and I wouldn’t have let them go to the fucking park while we were gone just to give the creep an opportunity to take pictures of them. He could fuck with us all he wanted. Those pictures hurt, and the situation was still spinning in my mind to the point I wanted to throw up; but at least we were adults who could handle it. Jack and Scarlet were still just my little babies. It didn’t matter how big they were getting, they were always going to be my babies, and no one ever fucked with them.

Hotch kissed my knuckles as we parked at the hotel. He paused for a moment, turning to look at me, cradling my cheek in his other palm. “I’m sorry. If Strauss didn’t order me to keep this confidential, you would have been the first person I told. You have to believe that.”

“I do.”

“Are you okay now… knowing what we know about tonight…”

I shook my head. “No, but it’s not the point.” I escaped his touch so that I could open my car door and jump out. Hotch followed shortly, deciding to drop the conversation.

The second we stepped into the hotel room where Strauss was supposed to be staying, we saw Rossi pacing around, completely stressed out, running his hands through his hair while muttering thoughts under his breath. I glanced around. The window was open, the bed was a wreck, there was broken glass on the ground, drawers were left open, the bathroom looked like a tornado had torn through it, but what was most obvious were the mini alcohol bottles from the mini fridge that were scattered everywhere. I thought she quit drinking. There was a situation a little bit ago shortly after The Face Cards when I was still bedridden where Hotch and Rossi found out that she was an alcoholic and decided to get her some help.

“Her one year chip is here,” Rossi said, holding it up for us to see. “She never lets go of it, Hotch. Ever. The Replicator must have her.” So, everyone seemed to know about this guy besides me, I supposed? What the fuck? “I’m going to check the roof.” Rossi was already moving for the fire escape.

“Be safe. We’ll head down to the lobby to look at the security footage,” Hotch said. I wanted to go with Rossi to give him back up, but I realized that Hotch didn’t want me to stray far from him after what happened. So, I followed him out of the room, and we started hurrying towards the inside stairwell just to see if she had wandered down there somehow. Hotch’s phone started ringing.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Straus…” He cocked a brow while answering. “Erin?” He stopped in his tracks when he heard the other end, making me stumble to a halt. “Where is she, you bastard.” He started running as fast as he could through the hallways, leaving me behind.

“Aaron! No!” I yelled, trying to run after him.

“Stay here! I love you!”

Those words echoed in my head as déjà vu overtook my senses. Hotch had said the exact same thing to me after we found Sam dying on his carpet, and Hotch went to the hospital with him. The panic that hadn’t settled in earlier was certainly settling in now. I could remember how Hotch said those exact same words to me as he closed the ambulance doors, and a few moments later, I collapsed on the sidewalk, unable to hear anything, unable to move, unable to breathe until I heard his voice again. He went on his own this time, though—No.

I started dashing to follow him, even though he had enough of a head start to already be out of the building. The Replicator had talked to Hotch. He had called from Strauss’s phone, which was the perfect way to lure Hotch out of the hotel, and it worked, which meant that if he had a plan, he was going to go after Hotch next. I started skipping steps in the stairwell. Not him. Not now. Aaron Hotchner was all kinds of stupid, but I wasn’t going to let this stupid decision get him killed while I froze up in a fucking hallway. I couldn’t live with that regret if that were the case.

When I pushed through the front doors of the hotel, I started looking up and down the street in search of Hotch. He had to be around somewhere. He got a head start, sure, but not enough to disappear into the night unless someone took him. He had to be close. I refused to believe that he was anywhere other than on that block, safe, alive, and waiting for me to find him. So, I just kept looking. I spun around in circles, jumping to look over the crowd, pushing between couples just to see if Hotch was hiding somewhere. I felt like I was going insane.

And then I saw him on a bench. I recognized his hair, how dark it was, how he liked to keep it short in the back but long in his face so that I could play with it when I was bored or during sex. I recognized him because of his body type. The shirt he had put on back at the penthouse was a simple button up, but it was fit to his body so well that when he was sitting down like that, I could see his biceps stretching the sleeves, and the actual torso part of the shirt had molded against his loose abs. I would recognize my husband anywhere. Even while his face was away from me, and he had someone in his arms, I could still tell that it was him. He looked okay… at least from where I was standing. I couldn’t tell for sure, though, so I dared to run across the street and hurry over to the bench. I could tell for sure now. He was alright, but he was holding Strauss in his arms, despite the fact that she wasn’t breathing anymore.

“Aaron…” I carefully peeled his grip off of her. “Aaron, it’s okay…”

As I kneeled down in front of Hotch, I recognized the lost fright in his eyes from the bombing four years ago, and from the murder of Haley a little under that, then my kidnapping two years ago. Whenever he was panicked, whenever there was too much going on at once, his eyes got lost in the world, like he couldn’t see anything at all, yet could somehow still see everything. It was hard to explain, but the way his jaw slacked, and the way his breath was shallow, and his body was unnaturally still… It all pointed to that instinct that overtook him every time something bad like this happened.

I put my hands on his face to bring his eyes level with mine. We had been through this before, we learned how to handle it, now all he had to do was focus on me and we would be fine. He told me that feeling my touch, hearing my voice, seeing my face, it always brought him down to Earth when this happened. So, I held him close, I kissed his forehead, and I whispered to him that everything would be alright.

“He talked about Foyet,” he finally told me.

I stopped comforting him for a moment to reflect on what he just said. “What?”

“He…” He lowered his head. “He talked about how Foyet killed Haley… That I was stuck on the phone, incapable of doing anything that could help.”

“How could he know that?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head against my touch.

“Look at me, baby.” I lifted his head gently. “We’ll figure this out. I promise. Just breathe.”

“He said he’s going to race us home—”

“Shhh…”

“The kids—”

“They’re at the office. They’re safe. Please. Catch your breath with me.” I inhaled slowly, letting him know that I wanted him to mimic me. I nodded an encouragement when he started doing so, and then when we couldn’t breathe in anymore, we held it, then slowly exhaled. He was relaxing in my touch already. We did it again. “You’re doing good, baby. Keep going.”

Footsteps hit the pavement behind us. I turned somewhat, just long enough to see that it was Rossi. He froze when he saw Strauss beside Hotch. As he collapsed and pulled Erin in for a hug, I helped Hotch to his feet, pulling him away so he could collect his thoughts again.

“Don’t stop breathing, baby,” I begged, pressing my forehead against his.

“Foyet—”

“Foyet’s gone. You’re here. I’m here. The kids are safe at the office. Just breathe.”

When the EMTs arrived, they put a sheet over Strauss’s body, lifted her onto a stretcher, then rolled her into the ambulance. Rossi was quiet while he followed them. With Hotch still somewhat out of it—not as bas bad as before, but still— I was the one who nodded in his direction, letting him know that it was okay to go with her. We would see him later.

At the Field Office, Hotch was finally relaxed and level-headed enough to explain to the team what was going on and what we were going to do now. We were going to get on the jet, head back to the office, and take down whoever the hell this Replicator guy was. Everyone seemed on board, but there were a lot of questions about when Rossi would be rejoining us. Honestly, we weren’t sure. He was flying with Strauss to Bethesda to talk with her children and stick around for the autopsy, which we would have by the time we would land in Virginia and get settled back at the office. He would probably return after that… if at all. What we needed to focus on was just getting the profile done and making sure that Strauss’s death wouldn’t be in vain.

When we got back to Quantico, I ran straight into Hotch’s office, finding Jack dead asleep on the couch, buried under a blanket that Hotch always had stowed away in case we had to sleep at the office, too. As for Scarlet, though, she was still awake. Jessica was sitting in Hotch’s chair at his desk, and Scarlet was sitting across from her, playing with some toys. She spotted me almost immediately, though.

“Mom!” She slid off the chair and ran to me.

“Hey, lil’ bug!” I exclaimed, lifting her into my arms. I kissed her a thousand times. “I love you so much!” I kept kissing her. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“She’s been fussy without you guys,” Jessica said.

“I’m sorry,” I said to her. I brushed Scarlet’s hair out of her face. “Do you want me to tell you a bedtime story before Dad and I have to go save the world again?”

“Yeah.” She nodded and pressed her cheek against my chest while still hugging my neck.

I sat down in one of the chairs across from Hotch’s seat and relaxed. While telling her the story, I thought about how relieved I was to have her in my arms again. The Replicator had a thousand chances to take her or Jack from me, especially while Hotch and I were gone. Hell, he got close enough to take pictures. If he really wanted to hurt us, he could have stolen my lil’ bug away. If that happened, I wasn’t sure if I’d survive.

By the time the story was over, she had magically fallen asleep in my arms. I smiled and kissed her hair. As I got up to lay her down on the couch with Jack, he rolled over and started snoring, making me and Jessica chuckle quietly, but I had to shush her.

When Scarlet was done, I looked at Jess. “I’m so sorry that this keeps happening to us.”

She shook her head. “As long as everyone’s safe, it’s okay.” She stepped forward and hugged me tightly. “Are you guys okay?”

“Not right now, but we will be.”

“You’ll get an actual vacation weekend soon.”

I laughed. “$20 says it doesn’t happen.”

She pulled away from me to shake my hand. “Deal.”

There was a knock on the door from Hotch, coming to tell us that Strauss’ autopsy had been completed. His gaze flicked to the kids, and he hesitated for a moment. They were asleep, but I could tell that he wanted to wake them up and just feel the way they would give him a Superman hug at the same time until he couldn’t breathe. But he restrained himself. He carefully stepped into the room and crouched down in front of the couch, kissing Scarlet’s forehead, then Jack’s. He stayed with them for a second longer, just admiring how perfect and innocent they were. My heart broke in my chest a bit, a smile creeping onto my face, and I reached forward to brush Hotch’s hair out of his face.

“We should go, baby,” I whispered to him. He nodded and pushed himself to his feet. “They’ll be alright. I promise.” He kissed me gently while keeping my head tilted up with his thumb. When he pulled back, we pressed our foreheads together. “Your messes are my messes.”

“Your messes are my messes.” He kissed me again quickly before taking my hand and leading me out of his office, waving goodbye to Jessica. She waved back to us while sitting back down to play a game on her phone. When we walked into the boardroom, we saw that Garcia was finishing up with hanging all the evidence we had of The Replicator. “Garcia, is this everything?” Hotch let go of my hand to cross his arms over his chest.

She nodded. “JJ’s grabbing the printed copy photos from Strauss’s autopsy, but this is everything else… except for you and Y/N… You know…”

“Thanks.”

“So, while you guys were on the jet, I started digging into why he would have possibly attacked Strauss and on this day, considering he would’ve had a thousand other chances to do it if he really does work for the FBI, but I couldn’t find anything in her life that was historically relevant.”

“We need to focus on the location, then. He waited until she was in New York, rather than attacking her here or at her home.”

“Look at how many photos he had of her, guys,” Morgan pointed out, referencing the dozens of pictures of our team up on the wall. I knew that he had taken pictures of me and Hotch in bed, but I didn’t think that he had really been stalking the entire team all this time. “She’s hardly ever in the field, yet there’s more pictures of her than anyone else. It’s like he’s obsessed with her.”

“Maybe Strauss was always the real target. We were just in the way, and also a distraction.”

“I’ve got the rest of the photos,” JJ said, holding the stack up for us before heading to the board to pin them up. “We were right, he replicated the New York attacks, which accelerated his timeline. He spiked Strauss’s alcohol with meth and heroin.”

“Not ecstasy?” I asked.

“Nope.” She hung up a picture of a symbol that had been carved into Strauss’s wrist antemortem.

“Wait—” I stepped forward, halting her actions. “What is that?”

“An infinity sign?” Garcia guessed.

“An eight? Wasn’t she his eighth victim?” Morgan added.

“But why would he do that? His whole M.O. is copying our other cases as closely as possible to prove that he’s been stalking us. He wouldn’t deviate just to make things interesting now,” I said.

“He would if Strauss was his intended target.”

“It’s too random. Everything this guy has done thus far has been strategic and with the point of getting under our skin. This doesn’t affect us personally in any way, unlike the photos and him mentioning Foyet on the phone,” Hotch said.

“Wait. He knew about Foyet?” JJ questioned. “How? That was a confidential case. No one outside of our unit and SWAT knew the intricate details of what happened to Haley.”

“But the file has enough general information. He had to have accessed it somehow,” I said.

“Maybe when he hacked Garcia?”

“It’s a paper file. Cody made sure it didn’t make its way into any system to ensure that no one could get their hands on it outside of the FBI, which means… Technically, anyone working for at Quantico could know.” What was he saying? “The only people who knew where Y/N and I were this weekend before the hack was the BAU and Cody’s office. The only problem here is that Strauss wasn’t sure that she recognized him. If he works for the FBI—”

“He might not have been showing his face to her—and even if he was, she was probably too out of it to actually recognize him,” Reid said. “Besides that, there are hundreds of new and old faces every day at Quantico. Strauss was a busy woman. She might not’ve remembered him.”

I shook my head. “Let’s say that he does work in the FBI, that explains how he knows about all of our cases with so much detail. He replicates everything, we can’t forget that. So, what the hell is the symbol on her wrist replicating?”

“The Cutter,” Hotch realized. We all looked at him, giving him our full attention. “The last case we worked before this weekend.”

We had been in Detroit for nine days, tracking down an Unsub who liked leaving Joker-like smiles on his victims’ faces by cutting them up. Sometimes he got fancy with it, taking their tongues, cutting a toe or a finger off, but he always cut the mouths. There was nothing about carving symbols into the victims. No eights, infinities, whatever. So, why did Hotch think that this had anything to do with that?

“I need to see her computer.” Hotch turned to snap at someone outside the room. “Anderson, I need you to run to Strauss’s office and bring me her computer, please. Now.”

“Yes, sir.” Anderson did as he was told, literally racing to the office just past the bullpen, though the door, down the hallway, and to the right. We waited patiently for him to come back. “Here you go,” he said, panting, handing the laptop over.

“Thanks, Anderson.”

“No problem, sir.” He took his leave from the room again.

Hotch passed the computer over to Garcia, who was sitting down and wiggling her fingers to warm up before she would start typing up a storm in order to hack in. Hotch watch from over her shoulder. “I need you to access who was on the distribution list for my case report for The Cutter.”

“You don’t know who reads your reports?” she questioned, already typing.

“I know that she sends them to the head of the Criminal Division and the Director, but I don’t know who else has access to it.”

“It’s right here.”

Hotch leaned in further to read because the words were too small for him. I was going to have to drag him to the eye doctor soon. Just because I always joked that he was getting old didn’t mean that I didn’t actually worry about him; and something that I had been noticing recently was that he was struggling to read things as well as he used to. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he needed reading glasses now. Not that he would ever wear them. Aaron Hotchner would rather die than ever admit that he wasn’t physically fit to be in the field or to work on reports when we were at home.

“She amended my report,” he said. We all grew curious. “She wrote that he carved infinity symbols into his victims’ wrists.” He stood up tall to address us, “She trapped him to make sure that we would know that he was an insider. Garcia, who else read this?”

“Two other people so far. The Director and— Uh oh.”

“Uh oh? Again?” I scratched my fingers through my hair, really annoyed with how she wasn’t just spitting it out. The other day, she pulled the same shit. Uh oh. I loved her to death, but sometimes she needed to just say it rather than dragging it out.

“You remember the Senator that investigated the BAU after Doyle?

Okay. That was an uh oh. Fuck.

“I’ll talk to him. You all need to stay here, stay together, don’t talk about this outside of this room. No one else can know about this.” Hotch hurried out of the room and B-lined straight for his office to grab one of his suits from his go-bag in his office. I followed him. “Hey, Jess, I need to change real quick,” he said as we walked in. “Can you give us a sec?”

“Of course.” She immediately stood and went to stand outside the office.

I closed the blinds while he quietly picked up his bag, carefully pulled at the zipper, cringing at how loud it was, and pulled his clothes out, all without waking up the kids. It was funny that he thought that they would jolt awake. The two of them were freaking corpses when it came to sleeping. Back when Scarlet was a baby, she was the worst about staying asleep, but now she could sleep all day and all night without a single issue. As for Jack, he struggled to fall asleep sometimes because of his nightmares, but once he was asleep, he was out until morning. They got it from their dad.

“You’ll stay here with them until I get back?” he asked me, peeling off his shirt. I nodded. “Henry’s just down the hall in JJ’s old office with Will. If Jack wakes up soon, he can probably go hang out in there while Jess keeps an eye on Scarlet in here.” He kicked off his pants, then picked up his button up and slid his arms into the sleeves. I helped put it together nicely while he focused on sliding his suit pants on. “I’ll ask Anderson to get everyone donuts from Leonard’s for breakfast. The kids’ll be happy about that.”

“Aaron,” I whispered, fitting his tie around his neck for him, “are you okay after last night?”

“I will be after all of this and once the two of us can sit down and talk about it.”

I flattened his collar around the tie, then stepped back so that he could put his suit jacket on. At least he wanted to talk about it. He wasn’t going to keep it bottled up this time and have me wondering if he was really alright or if he was just lying to me again. I was really fucking sick and tired of him lying to me. I mean, he had been really good about it since the Piano Man case over a year and a half ago.

He kissed me as he holstered his weapon and clipped his badge onto his jacket. “I love you. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I love you.” I cupped my hands on his cheeks before kissing him. “I’ll be here, waiting for you.” We pressed our foreheads together, both of us letting out a relaxed exhale. “Come back to me.”

“I’m just going—”

“Promise me.”

Hotch snaked his arms around my waist, pulling me as close to his chest as humanly possible, our foreheads still pressed together as he towered over me. His fingers sprawled on my back. “I promise.” He rubbed his hands smoothly up and down my back for a bit. “And I promise that we’re going to talk about Strauss, about the pictures, about having another weekend where we can do things the right way.” His hands turned to fists around the fabric of my shirt. “I promise that I’m not going to let this guy take away anything else from us.”

We kissed again, our lips barely meeting because if it was anything more than that, we would have passionately, desperately kissed one another until we were breathless and forgot about the world around us, which wasn’t ideal. We needed to stay focused. Hotch needed to find the Senator, talk to him about still keeping an eye on our unit, even after they cleared us after Doyle, and then we needed to find out who the hell The Replicator was. We could forget about life later.

“I love you, Y/N Hotchner, more than life itself.”

I melted in his arms a bit, grabbing onto his suit jacket to maintain my balance. “When you say shit like that, I don’t know what to do with myself.” We both chuckled quietly. Jack suddenly stared snoring on the couch, making us both laugh again. “He’s so like you, it’s stupid.” Hotch’s smile faded, but he tried to mask it by kissing my cheek, then hiding his face in the crook of my neck. “Go save the world, Agent Hotchner.” I begged, prying him off of me before we could stay glued like that for the rest of our lives. I combed my fingers through his hair to make sure he looked nice for the Senator. “We’ll be here.”

Hotch’s hands left my back, making me ache silently for his touch again, which he somehow recognized, because he immediately held my hand in his as he started walking around me and stepped towards the door. I didn’t move. Our arms continued to stretch towards each other, fingers intertwining in an attempt to stay with each other for a little longer, but once he was out of reach, there was nothing we could do. He opened the door, turned to look at the kids once more, then left. I sighed and slumped into a chair.

Jessica carefully peeked in, wondering if it was safe to return. When she saw me sitting there, flustered and silent, she stepped in and closed the door behind her. I half expected that she would return to Hotch’s seat. It was, after all, the most comfortable seat in the room, and I knew it, considering it was my desk for a little while. But Jessica sat down next to me and took my hand in hers without saying anything. Nothing needed to be said. We just stayed there, watching the kids as they slept, waiting for Hotch to come back with answers.

----

Around the time Hotch returned, Rossi was walking in, too. We all spotted him, but no one said anything to him or approached him. We all just decided to meet in the boardroom while waiting for Hotch to get his things organized and make an attempt to talk to Rossi, which he was immediately denied. He looked to the boardroom, begging one of us to try again, but we all stared at each other, asking ourselves who dared to do it.

“I’m gonna go check on Rossi.” Morgan said to the group. We all nodded understandingly.

When he left, Hotch traded places with him, coming into the roundtable room with a stack of papers. “This is everyone who has read my reports over the past two years.” He dropped the heavy stack on the table. “There’s thirty-six people.” My jaw fell. We were going to have to profile thirty-six different people on a time crunch, which was near to impossible, even with all six of us, plus Garcia, working on it. That was still about six people per team member. How the fuck were we supposed to profile all that?

“Woah! Rossi! What’re you doing, man?! Put the gun down!” Morgan shouted.

My brows furrowed for a second as I stepped closer to the windows of the room to look across the bullpen and into Rossi’s office. There was Morgan, standing in the doorway, and in front of him, Rossi was pointing a gun at him. I dropped my papers and ran. When I was close enough, I slowed down to be casual. I didn’t want to spook him.

“Dave,” I croaked, stepping into his office. My hands were sprawled out in front of me, ready to swing for the gun if he moved for the trigger. “What’s this about?”

“Morgan’s fingerprints were on the glass that killed Strauss,” he answered.

“What?” Morgan questioned, scoffing.

I took another careful step forward in front of Morgan. There was no way he was going to shoot me. “Dave, someone on the inside is The Replicator, they’re probably the one who told you that—”

“It was in her report that was on my desk!” he yelled. The gun was shaking in his hands as his nose started to bleed the same way Strauss’s had been. He had been drugged, too.

I looked over at the page on the ground that was supposedly the official report he had just been reading. “You’ve been drugged, Rossi.” I was still walking towards him, despite Morgan’s quiet protests behind me. “He wants us to turn on each other. If you pull that trigger right now, you shoot me, you lose Hotch, you lose Reid, you lose Morgan, and you lose JJ. Is that what you want? Do you want him to win after everything? After Strauss?” I was close enough to reach for the gun. “Don’t shoot me. Just let me… Let me help you…” I started slowly going for it. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to get you help, and you’re going to be just fine.” I had a grip on the gun, and I managed to finally pry it away from him.

Morgan let out a heavy sigh of relief behind me. “I’ll call the paramedics.”

Hotch finally came rushing in, now that the coast was clear and the tension had been diffused. If he had come in any sooner, Rossi might have been spooked and shot me, even if he didn’t want to, but just because of how the drugs fucked with him. He immediately came over to check on Rossi. We helped him onto the couch in his office, and Hotch didn’t hesitate to ask if Rossi had taken anything, drank anything, bumped into anyone. All he told us was that he had picked up Strauss’s report, and that was when he started feeling like shit.

“That was stupid of you,” Hotch whispered to me while slapping Rossi’s cheeks to keep him awake. “The kids are in the next room, how could you—”

“The kids!” I pushed myself up to my feet using Hotch’s shoulder and ran straight to his office. If Rossi had been poisoned through the paper, that meant that the Unsub must have dropped it off, or else security would have caught it. The Unsub was in his office. He walked right past our family. He could have done something to them. “Scarlet—” I turned into the room to see her and Jack watching a movie together on a tablet. I stopped in my tracks for a second as they looked up at me with raised brows. “Did anyone come in here?” I asked Jessica. She shook her head, eyeing me suspiciously.

He didn’t go for them. He said something to Hotch on the phone last night about how he was going to race us home, and Hotch was worried about the kids, which was why we brought them to the office, thinking that they would be safe, but the Unsub had them right there, and he went right past them, and he didn’t—

“Mom?” Jack questioned me. “Are you okay?’

I nodded and faked a smile. “Of course, little man. I was just checking on you guys…” I cleared my throat. “Did you, um… Did you get a donut yet?”

“He had two,” Jessica answered.

“And what about you, Scarlet?”

“I had two, too!” She laughed at herself. “Tutu.”

I smiled casually at them before turning and hurrying right back out of the office, letting out a shaky breath. The office was supposed to be safe. What if Scarlet or Jack had run into the Unsub? What if they had touched the paper Rossi touched just because they wanted to see what the superheroes were up to? I let out another breath, this time trying to calm my nerves as I saw the medics run into Rossi’s and start caring for him.

“We found something,” Reid said quietly, sneaking up on me, even though he hadn’t meant to.

I looked at him suddenly. “What?” I really hadn’t heard him. I had been so lost in thought that I knew he said something important, but I really couldn’t register what it was. “I’m sorry.”

“We found something.”

“Something good?”

“We found the Unsub.”

“Is he still here?” I asked eagerly, already walking with him along the balcony towards the boardroom again. He shook his head. “What do we know?” I asked everyone else when we entered.

“Is Rossi okay?” Garcia asked before she felt like answering me. I nodded to her while taking a seat, now waiting for her to tell me something. She caught the hint. “So, instead of profiling all thirty-six people who had read Hotch’s reports, we instead chose to connect anyone to New York since we noted that might be important to him if he chose to kill Strauss there.” Okay, so… “There were two agents at Quantico. One died last March, but the other… John Curtis… He worked under Strauss during the Amerithrax case in 2001 since he specialized with biochemistry. It seems like he was really hoping to move through the ranks at Quantico, according to letters he wrote to the Director after he was unfortunately demoted to go work in Kansas City.”

“How’d he make his way here, then?”

“After fifteen letters to the Director’s office, he was finally promoted to work in his office.”

That explained how his clearance was high enough for him to get into the building and into the BAU specifically without being detected. If we were to take the cars downstairs, he probably would’ve been prepared that something would go awry with them to prevent us from chasing him down this time around, so it was agreed that we were going to take the helicopters up on the roof. They were faster, more convenient, and unexpected. Curtis probably had no idea that the BAU even had access to the helicopters. They were our best bet. So, we all geared up and started running upstairs, assigning seats in the two vehicles. Hotch, JJ, and I were going to be in the first one, meanwhile Morgan and Reid would be in the other.

As we were flying through the air, speeding towards Curtis’s farmhouse out in rural Virginia, Garcia was in contact with Hotch, Morgan, and SWAT, discussing the layout of the farm so that we could perform a tactical breech with minimal losses. JJ and I were sitting together in the back, though, just staring out our respective windows. I was counting the minutes until we would land. Even after all this time, I still fucking hated flying, but at least when we were on the jet, that was familiar, so I could feel safe there, but now we were in a helicopter, which was unchartered territory for me, and I was terrified. The height wasn’t the problem… It was the fact that we could crash at any minute, and that would be it. Our fate was practically out of our hands.

It was like karma could hear me, because the next thing I knew, alarms were going off in front of the pilot, and we were dropping in the air. I cursed under my breath and held on for dear life. Through the headsets we were wearing, I could hear the pilot saying something about how auto-pilot was failing, and that something was preventing him from turning it back on. I squeezed my eyes shut as we kept falling. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I hated flying, and this was exactly why.

“Brace for impact!”

And then we hit the ground.

I weakly opened my eyes, blinking harshly to try and wash away the fog while also trying to adjust to the darkness. We didn’t die.

“Are you guys alright?!” Morgan asked as he pried Hotch’s door open.

Hotch fell sideways out of his seat in the helicopter, crashing to his knees before Morgan could catch him. I groaned, holding my head, trying to make the spinning stop. My fucking back hurt like a bitch, too—not as bad as when I first injured it at the bank during The Face Cards’ bombing, but certainly getting there. I whimpered when it hurt to move.

“Y/N…” Hotch groaned, carefully crawling his way over with Morgan’s help. “Y/N…” He reached around and unbuckled me from my seat. I coughed; my lungs too weak to maintain a normal breathing pattern. “Baby…”

I weakly wrapped my arms around his neck and attempted to pull him close. “Are you okay?” I opened my eyes as the world stopped spinning. Hotch nodded. “Where’s JJ?”

“I don’t know.” We stumbled onto the grass together. “Are you alright?”

I rested my forehead against his shoulder. “My back…” I croaked.

“It’s hurting again?”

I nodded. “I’ll be fine, though.”

“You said that last time—”

“But I mean it now. Why didn’t he kill us?”

“What?”

I cleared my throat and stood up straight, trying to shake off the ache in my back. “Why didn’t he kill us? I felt it at the end, something controlled the helicopter enough to have us land somewhat carefully, but then he took JJ… Why?”

“To give himself a bargaining chip?”

“Maybe…”

“Hey—” Reid called, running over to us. Just as I looked at him, he crashed into my arms, pulling me in for a hug. I ignored how it hurt my back. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. He took JJ.”

“What?” He pulled away so that he could go check the helicopter for himself. Just as he was inspecting it, a few black SUVs pulled up to take us the rest of the way. Maybe we should have just started with that.

Hotch helped me to the car, Morgan and Reid following close behind. Usually, Hotch would have sat in the front, leaving me in the back, but this time around, he sat with me, squeezing my hand as tightly as he could. I think that we had been through too much over the past few days. It was finally taking its toll. What we thought was going to be a normal getaway turned into working two cases—one where Hotch had to deal with his brother, then he had to deal with a thousand personal things. Pornographic photos, Strauss, Foyet being mentioned, the kids, meeting with the Senator—There were a thousand more things I could have possibly listed, but nearly dying in a helicopter crash… yeah, that was the cherry on top. He had been in the front seat with the pilot. I was in the back with JJ. When we were going down, I wanted nothing more than to hold him again, to look into his eyes, but I couldn’t because I was just behind him. Then, The Replicator could have taken me, but he didn’t. Hotch had risked too many things by not sitting in the back with me, but he wasn’t going to risk that now, the same way I wasn’t going to let him risk it either.

When we arrived at the house, SWAT was there, waiting on us, and for the call that Hotch wanted to make. Without hesitating, he said that we should breach the farmhouse up ahead. So, SWAT led the way, the team following close behind. We started by surrounding the entire thing. When everyone was in place, Hotch gave his mark on the comms, and then we all stormed in with our weapons raised. My back hurt like a bitch as I navigated my way through every room with Morgan, but I put on a brave face and tried to focus on just not getting shot or something. That was probably worse than hurting my back.

When we found nothing on the main or upper floor, Morgan and I moved towards the basement door. He grabbed the handle and I nodded, gesturing for him to go. We hurried down the steps. The basement was a red room for photography so that he could print out whatever pictures he took of us. Morgan and I spotted all of the photos of me and Hotch in bed because they were hanging up on a line to dry. Morgan quickly looked away out of respect.

“Anything?” Hotch asked in a whisper, scaring the shit out of me and Morgan since we weren’t expecting him to be there. When we caught our breaths, we shook our heads. “There’s another room over there.” He pointed with his flashlight.

Hotch led the way, Reid and I shoulder to shoulder, Morgan following behind us. The door was open, so Hotch lunged into the room, hoping to get a jump on Curtis if he happened to be around the corner, but he wasn’t. When we were all inside, we saw JJ sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, chained to it, her mouth gagged with a cloth napkin, of all things. Reid quickly holstered his weapon and hurried to help her.

“Morgan, we should go find him,” Hotch said. “Y/N and Reid can handle this.”

I knelt down on the ground beside Reid to help him get JJ free as the boys ran back out of the room. I peeled the napkin out of JJ’s mouth. “You okay?”

“He said that there’s eight locks because there used to be eight of us before he killed Strauss,” she said urgently.

“That’s all he said?”

She nodded.

Reid picked up a carabiner of keys laying on the ground next to the pile of locks. He sifted through them, only counting six, but each of them had a letter taped on. I inspected the locks themselves, spotting that they had numbers on them. Somehow, the letter and the numbers correlated.

“What are the letters?” I asked.

“G,” he began. That was the seventh letter in the alphabet. “A.” That was the first. “N.” That was fourteenth. “Z— Zugzwang.”

I froze and looked at him. Zugzwang? As in what Diane said to him over the phone when she first took Maeve? How would Curtis know that—Why would he use that? I mean, Zugzwang itself meant the point in the game when the player(s) had to decide if they wanted to forfeit or play until the bitter end, so in the context of the keys and the locks, what did that mean for JJ?

“It’s too easy,” I muttered under my breath, but he was already going for it.

Hotch and Morgan were already running back in, which meant that they probably hadn’t found Curtis. Great. So, now we were playing a risky game that had an uncertain end, and our Unsub likely got away. Well, fuck.

“The whole place is lined with C-4,” Morgan warned us. They were watching as Reid kept unlocking JJ’s chains. “We have about three minutes.”

“We’ll be gone by then,” Reid insisted. Unless this really was too easy, I suspected it was.

Then, it dawned on me. Reid the other week, when Scarlet and I were at his house, was trying to teach her some of the “basics” of chess, which in his mind was everything from how to move the pieces to how to win in less than three moves. He forgot sometimes that she was only two. She was smart, but she wasn’t as smart as he was, though he sometimes wished that were the case. But there was something he said about Zugzwang. The best thing to do in that situation was to do nothing at all. To not forfeit, to not play, but to just… wait.

“Don’t move—” I tried warning JJ, but the second the chains were off her hands, she stood up.

Suddenly, we could all see the pressure plate that she had been sitting on the whole time. Everyone’s eyes widened as we froze, waiting to see if something would happen, like the bomb potentially going off randomly. Nothing happened for a second. We all relaxed, but it came too early, because the door suddenly closed behind us.

Our three minutes were running out.

With our exit blocked, we called Garcia quickly, hoping that she would be able to do something about the bomb’s detonation, or perhaps getting the door open, if she could. I didn’t have high hopes. I was just staring at Hotch as he desperately tried to get the door open. After Haley, we promised the kids—well, technically just Jack—that nothing bad would ever happen to both Mom and Dad while we were off saving the world. Ever. I genuinely thought that if something happened, it would have been one of us going home, having to explain to the kids why Mom or Dad wasn’t coming back, holding the kids as they cried. Hotch and I were prepared for that. But I never in a million years thought that our kids would have to grow up as orphans. Yet, while watching Hotch desperately pry and scrape at the door, I couldn’t help but think that Jack was going to have to live with knowing that three of his parents dies because of the BAU, and that Scarlet was going to have to grow up without Mom, Dad, Curls, and Uncle Morgan.

Emily was going to have to come back. Because she was Scarlet’s godmother, she would have to leave London to handle the will, the house, everything with Jessica. From there, the two of them would have to decide who was going to take the kids and where they were going to be raised. Would Emily take them to England? She had a steady job there with enough income for a thousand kids, but did she have a place for them in her life? Not really. Would she still fight like hell to raise them, anyhow? Of course. As for Jessica, she had a job, but not one with enough income to support two kids on her own. Her place was big enough for them, and it was already in our neighborhood, so she could make sure the kids still went to their schools where they had friends.

Not that my opinion mattered in any of this. The door was barely budging, and Garcia had managed to severe the tie between the phone Curtis had and the bombs he planted; but if we didn’t get the door all the way open soon, none of it was going to matter. My kids were going to grow up forgetting their parents’ faces.

“What the hell are you guys doing in there?!” Rossi exclaimed on the other side of the door. He must have pressed something outside, because it suddenly opened, giving us freedom. “Ever heard of traps before?”

“We have to go,” Hotch ordered, ignoring Rossi’s wit. He must’ve still been high from whatever the hospital gave him.

When we ran outside, ducking behind the SUVs for cover, I looked around for a headcount, realizing that we were one short. Hotch, Morgan, Reid, JJ, they were all there… “Rossi!” I shouted.

He was right behind us, I thought, while we were running out of the house. Where the fuck did he go? It wasn’t like he could get lost, considering all of the sirens and lights that were coming from the road we were on. We were like a beacon screaming: “HEY, WE’RE OVER HERE, IDIOT?!” So, where the fuck was he?

“We have to go back in.” I stepped around the car and took a step that was meant to lead into a sprint, but Hotch caught me, holding me back the same way Morgan had when JJ found out that Will was going into The Face Cards’ bank. “Aaron, stop!” I hit at his hands to make him let go, but he didn’t budge. I didn’t understand. Rossi was his best friend the same way Morgan was mine; why wasn’t he doing anything? “We have to get him!”

“Look, he’s right there,” Hotch said calmly, risking letting go of me with one arm so that he could point at the house. Rossi was crawling out of the storm cellar that connected to the basement we were in. He stumbled for a moment, trying to get to his feet, and then he started running like hell towards us. “He’s fine.”

As if the timing couldn’t’ve been any more perfect, the place blew just when Rossi was far enough that it wouldn’t hurt him. We all ducked while flinching. Glass shattered, wooden beams flew in different directions, and part of the house collapsed in on itself. I did my headcount again. Hotch had me in his arms, Morgan was at my side, Reid was checking on JJ, and Rossi was now casually walking over to us. We had everyone. We were okay. So, I relaxed in Hotch’s arms, letting my head fall back against his chest. What a shitty fucking fucking weekend.

#Criminal Minds #criminal minds fanfic #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #aaron hotchner #Aaron Hotch Hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner imagine

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dindjarindiaries · 4 years

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Mandoctober - October 19: Covert

summary: When you see the Mandalorian in trouble, you seek out the covert you’d suspected earlier to gain their assistance—instead gaining an entire new path for your life. (excerpt from Security)

pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x gn!reader (for this selection)

warnings: mentions of violence

rating: T

word count: 1.105k

mandoctober masterlist

october 19: covert

Walking the streets of Nevarro has always been a risk. But this commotion is much different.

You duck behind the nearest building for cover as you observe further. You see a large crowd of bounty hunters surrounding someone, but you can’t tell who it is. After squinting a bit and seeing his armor catch light, your eyes widen. It’s a Mandalorian—and he’s holding a bundle.

A child? Is he trying to rescue it?

If that’s what he’s doing, then it looks like he’s in trouble, and you know that the only way to rid of the weight you’ve been feeling ever since you heard the talk of the asset is to help him somehow.

“The kid’s coming with me,” you hear the Mandalorian say.

“If you truly care about the kid, then you’ll put it on the speeder.” The voice undoubtedly belongs to Greef Karga, who’s out of your sight.

Why is he so insistent upon keeping this kid on Nevarro?

“How do I know I can trust you?” the Mandalorian asks after a pause.

“Because I’m your only hope.”

You don’t think the Mandalorian can trust him, and you watch in horror as he appears to be contemplating the offer. He’s standing near the speeder, looking as if he’s about to place the child in it. Don’t do it. Please don’t give in.

A few minutes ago, you didn’t think you could ever root for the Mandalorian. Now, it’s evident that your quick judgments about him had been incorrect—and perhaps saving the child had been his purpose all along.

After moments of contemplation, you see the Mandalorian quickly pull out his blaster before jumping into the speeder with the child, and the other bounty hunters begin firing shots relentlessly. You hold back a gasp, knowing that him and the child are both against unlikely odds and need backup—but you alone won’t be of much help.

Suddenly, you remember the glimmering of a Mandalorian helmet you’d seen before. Maybe, just maybe, if you had been wrong, there’s more Mandalorians around—and they can help their ally. Instantly, you hurry away towards the place you’d spotted the helmet, trying your best to find the location in the darkened town. Soon, you fall upon the concealing curtain, pulling it aside as you dare to walk past it.

Your feet trod down a spiraling staircase, and you’re met with a tunnel that stretches almost endlessly in two opposite directions. Upon your arrival, you’re instantly met with the turning heads of Mandalorians, and your eyes widen at the massive amount. You thought they’d all been killed. They had just been hiding.

One of the Mandalorians approaches you quickly, and you take a few steps back as their large figure towers over you. “Who are you?” their deep, modulated voice questions you sharply. “How did you find us?”

“I—I stumbled across here by accident,” you rush out, knowing you don’t have much time. “But there’s trouble up in the town, and you ought to know—.”

“How did you find us?” the Mandalorian demands again, stepping forward. The action forces your back up against the wall of the tunnel, and fear shoots through you. Your hand subconsciously lands on the blaster in your holster.

“Let them speak,” a softer modulated voice speaks out. Everyone’s heads turn towards the speaker, who emerges from a gap in the tunnel. She dons a golden helmet, and it manages to glitter in the darkness of the tunnel as she approaches you and the large Mandalorian. “What’s this trouble you speak of?”

“It’s another Mandalorian,” you explain. “He’s in trouble. He’s trying to save the child—you know, the asset everyone talks about—and now he’s pinned by other bounty hunters.”

The golden Mandalorian still has all eyes drawn to her, and you hear her sigh lightly—though it’s not in exasperation. “Din Djarin,” you manage to hear her mumble, though you’re almost sure she meant to say it to herself. She faces the gathered crowd of Mandalorians, beginning to address them. “A member of the tribe is in need of aid. You must go to help them.”

“But we’ll have to find a new place for the covert!” the Mandalorian across from you exclaims.

“This is the Way,” the golden Mandalorian states.

“This is the Way,” the rest of the Mandalorians in the tunnel agree. They begin to file out towards an exit further away than the way you’d come in, and you feel the need to help them. Before you can scurry away, though, the golden Mandalorian stops you with a gentle touch on your shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, her modulated voice heavy with gratitude. “You have helped us uphold our code, and therefore earn the respect and security of the tribe.”

You offer her a nod. “No worries. It’s the right thing to do. But, I need to go help them.”

“No,” the Mandalorian insists. “They won’t need your aid. But, he will.”

“He?” you echo.

“Din Djarin,” the Mandalorian states. “The Mandalorian you spoke of. He will need help keeping the child safe, for he cannot safely provide both for himself and the child on the run without someone else. If you would like to help, that is how.”

You contemplate her words for a moment. She’s suggesting that you leave anything you might have here behind and join a rogue bounty hunter on the run—when him and the child will evidently be pursued by anyone who previously acquired a tracking fob. This includes skilled bounty hunters, people you’ve been trying to avoid ever since you were orphaned.

Yet, you have nothing to leave behind, and you feel a responsibility to help this child, who’s in a similar situation to your own from the past. You remember how desperately you wanted someone to help you in those days. So, you give the Mandalorian a nod. “I will.”

“Then I will tell the tribe to inform Din Djarin that you will be joining him.” She pauses, reaching out her hand to give you something. You accept it, looking at your hand to see the crafting of a Mythosaur sitting there. “Show this to him to prove I have sent you. Good luck.”

You give her another nod, clutching the metal in your fist and finally chasing after the other Mandalorians.

permanent tag list: @mikahid @bestintheparsec @stilllivindue2spite @givemethatgold @xbrujita @mandalorianspace @blushingwueen @sevvysaurus @myakai13 @thisis-theway @beskars @rach-likes-books @theindiealto @hiscyarika @wickedfrsgrl @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @bookwafflefangirl @charliepeaceout @cable-kenobi @ezraslittleblondestreak @hdlynn @your-pixels-are-showing @b0n-chann @javier-djarin @nettyklecan @mistermiraclee @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @smellssharpies @catfishingmorales @wille-zarr @kaetastic @saltywintersoldat @agentpike @mrsparknuts @readsalot73 @yespolkadotkitty @mandhoelorian @lilangeldevil006 @roxypeanut @hail-doodles @randomness501 @this-cat-is-dea @hopplessdreamer @paintballkid711 @dracos-jedi-marvel @whataenginerd @katlikeme @petertingless @propertyofdindjarin @theocatkov @bisexual-space-slut @cyaredindjarin @arkofblake @cryptkeepersoul @motleymoose @mrschiltoncat @f0rever15elf @lady-of-nightmares-and-heartache @rogueonestan @goldafterglow @thedevilwearsbeskar @badassbaker @pancakepike @create-a-constellation @mymindisawhirpool @antmnwasp @capbrie @freak-of-nature2002 @arabellathorne @mandilflorian @phoenixhalliwell @beiroviski @darthadeline @cheriedjarin @edencherries @mstgsmy @seasonschange-butpeopledont @aliciaxglasgow @poesflygirl @weirdowithnobeardo @dee-rosemary @ceebeetheartdork @kiwi-the-first @mitchi-c

mandalorian tag list: @lola-wolf @hoodedbirdie @chibi-liz05 @nerd-without-a-cause @hdlynn @thepjofanqueen @bwemph @starwarsslytherin @iellarenuodolorian @littlevodika @jjemcarstairs @promiscuoussatan @fahrenheit-not @vernon-dursley

#if you want to know what happens... read security!#hehehe #my baby #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #drabbles #mandoctober #dindjarindiaries

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banashee · 3 years

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It's midnight where I am, which means it's technically the 21st already 😁 Hi Folks, welcome to my fourth fic for the Archival Pride 2021 project! Look at their tumblr for more info :)

@archivalpride

Archival Pride 2021, Week four (June 21-28) Prompts: comfort, childhood, research, missing scene, statement

The key words I've used here are comfort, research (and arguably missing scene depending how you look at it)

So, this wasn't supposed to get nearly as long as it ended up being. But I enjoyed wirting this a ridiculous amount, and I hope you can find a bit of joy, comfort or anything else you're seeking as well.

Please mind the tags and content warnings for this one! It’s quite a bit heavier than my other entries for the Archival Pride 2021.

Content warnings: - Trauma, Grief - PTSD / Panic attacks - violent canon death of a sibling - coping - Nightmares - Canon-typical violence - Canon-typical Clowns / The Stranger - Death of a loved one - Canon-typical violence and thoughts of violence - Past underage kissing between consenting teenagers (nothing graphic and very PG) - breif internalized Bi-Phobia in the past - brief mention of past Ace-Phobia - strong language - TMA season 3 spoilers, even though this story is set pre-canon.

Whispers in the Dark

The first time Tim meets Jonathan Sims is when he sets down a small cardboard box and a stack of files onto a desk. More precisely, his own new place at the desk he just got assigned.

Tim just started out with his new job and he smiles, even though he is barely holding himself together at this point. He hopes no one will ask too many questions - it’s not like he plans on telling anyone what made him seek out the institute in the first place. It’s way too personal, and way too much to handle.

So he’d lied in the job interview, spun some story about wanting a new challenge. Mr. Bouchard didn’t question it, and Tim would like to think that is because his CV and education are rather high quality, which he isn’t shy about. Not at all - he is proud of his achievements, and rightfully so. But Tim can’t shake the feeling that his new employer had looked at him oddly, like he knows something that no one else does. It had been deeply unsettling, and if Tim thinks too much about it, it causes the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up straight.

Despite his gut feeling telling him something else, Tim decides to chalk it up to nerves and his… Current situation, so to say. He is more jumpy, more paranoid than he used to be, which isn’t surprising. He has seen things, lived through things that he wouldn’t know how to explain if anyone asked. But overthinking it won’t get him anywhere.

So, he puts on a bit of the show, something that looks like his usual happy-go-lucky personality. Loud, brash, flirty and wicked smart, just like he always has been. It feels incredibly fake to him, but then again, no one here knows him. No one has ever met him before… Before. They don’t know. They don’t know . None of them ever sees him when the mask falls, home alone, in a house that feels too big and too empty with Dany gone and - no.

“Don’t go there, Stoker, just don’t. Get through the day, see what you can find out and go home. Get back tomorrow, rinse and repeat. You can do this.” he tells himself and plasters on a smile that almost hurts.

As he sets down the box and his files, he greets his new coworker and desk-neighbor.

“Hi, I’m Tim, nice to meet you!” ( “be happy, sound happy, god dammit” he thinks, then reminds himself that this guy won’t know the difference.)

The man on the desk opposite of him looks up from his computer which he’d previously looked at with intense concentration. It seems to take him a moment to catch up, then he nods and there is the hint of a very small smile on his face.

“Oh, erm, hi. Welcome.” he says, like someone who isn’t used to interacting with too many people. And maybe he isn’t - Tim wouldn’t know. He almost moves on and accepts that he won’t get a name from his new desk neighbor, but then he hears him say,

“Jonathan. Jon is fine, too.”

And then, as if he never said anything, he focuses back onto the screen in front of him and starts typing furiously.

“Thanks!” Tim says, probably just a tad too loud and too enthusiastically, but he doesn’t get a response this time. Okay, awkward. He isn’t sure if Jon is ignoring him or if he just doesn’t realize that he is being talked to - judging from the very brief, first impression of him that Tim got, both options might be entirely possible.

As the days go by, they don’t interact a lot besides basic politeness and the occasional question or comment about something work related.

The first time Tim ever really talks to Jon, is when he witnesses the man climb a bookshelf in the library like a fucking tree. No kidding. Tim blinks, and for the first time in a long while, he feels a real, genuine laugh bubble up in his chest. What the hell? He steps closer, next to the large, antique bookshelf that his coworker is currently clinging to, pulling books from a shelf that is over his head still.

“Jon, hi.” Tim says, watching the scene in front of him unfold. This is not something he expected, least of all from the coworker who never seems to say or do anything mildly interesting. So much for the first impression - the second impression is something entirely different, and it is this very moment that Tim decides that he likes the guy.

The sound of Tim’s voice addressing him directly makes Jon turn his head.

“Hi. Can I help you?” he asks, brusk and matter of fact, as if there wasn’t anything odd about this situation.

“...I was going to ask you the same?” Tim offers, mildly amused as he finds himself kind of impressed when Jon manages to shrug with his hands full like that. While clinging to the shelf, because what even?

“No. Why? I’ve already got what I need.” Jon jumps down from the wooden board he’d been standing on, and it is only now that Tim realizes they’d been on eye level before. Now… Not so much. They never stood next to each other up until this moment, he realizes.

He’s only been here for about a week, but whenever Tim arrives at the office, Jon is already there, at his desk and working. He never gets up for lunch, only ever seems to leave the room to pick up or drop off books from the library, and by the time everyone else has left, Jon remains seated at his desk. If he wasn’t changing out his clothes, Tim would have been convinced that Jonatahn Sims simply plugs himself into a wall socket to recharge for the next day. Or maybe sleeps under his desk or something.

“Just… You know what, nevermind.” Tim has come to the very correct conclusion that he better just accept this as it is. It seems easier. Much, much easier than arguing with someone over nothing, even though Tim feels like punching a wall or two some days. But that is not his coworkers fault, and he doesn’t want to mess up the chance to get to know him because he is cute.

Tim doesn’t even question this train of thought anymore.

At some point in between meeting the man for the very first time and… well, this, he must have filed away the odd combination of grandfather cardigans, chipped dark nailpolish and neatly tied up hair, combined with that deep warm voice and decided that yes, this person is attractive.

To be fair, it doesn’t take Tim long to fall for people - it never has. He just didn’t expect to spend any time really looking at someone, now that his life has gone sideways in so many horrible ways.

Turns out he’d been wrong.

Finding something attractive about a person, no matter their gender or any physical attributes, is the easiest thing in the world to Tim. Ever since he can remember, he has enjoyed looking at people. Tim likes soft curves just as well as sharp angles, and has spent many many hours of his life getting lost in people's eyes. Sometimes, he’d caught himself staring when talking to a friend, losing himself in the depth of warm brown eyes with specks of gold, watery blue, light grey or green with specs of hazel and anything in between.

Tim vividly remembers a game of spin the bottle when he was a teenager and sat on the floor with a group of friends and classmates. Of course, there had been many dares to kiss someone, and he had happily taken them whenever possible.

At the time, Tim wasn’t sure about himself at all, because he’d only known that he finds people attractive, but all everyone around him had talked about was if you were gay or straight, if the question was even asked. Mostly, they just assumed whatever seemed convenient at the time.

No one tells Tim about the meaning of the word “Bisexual”, or even about the word itself until he is in college. But he knows how he feels, even though he is lacking the word for it for many years

Once he finds out, Danny is the first person he tells about it. Tim calls him that same night, sitting in a quiet corner of the dorm as he excitedly tells his little brother that he found a word to relate to himself and his feelings for other people.

“There are other people who feel that way, Danny. There is nothing wrong with me and there is a word for it!” he tells him in a hushed but excited voice, fumbling on a loose thread in a hole of his jeans. Those trousers have long been frayed into shreds but Tim refuses to part with them.

His voice is shaking with excitement, and he may or may not be holding back happy tears. This is a big moment for him, and because Danny is literally the best - not just because he answered his phone at fuck-o-clock in the morning when his brother called - he reacts with nothing but support.

“I might have a few questions, but I love you. No matter what. I’m happy for you.” he tells him, and in that moment, Tim couldn’t be happier or prouder of his younger brother.

The game of spin the bottle a few years earlier was the one of the first things that taught Tim that he finds many many things to be interested in and attracted to. It taught him that he is attracted to the many different ways people feel, and it hasn’t changed ever since.

Over the years, Tim finds himself falling in love quick and hard with a number of people, and none of them are ever the same. Each and every person is unique, in their looks and size and voice and feelings - and every single one is loveable just as they are.

“You do have a thing for certain types of voices though.” Tim thinks, and maybe that is the culprit here, now that he is standing in the library of the Magnus Institute and faced with Jonathan Sims, who looks up at him with one raised eyebrow. Oh shit, has he been staring the entire time?

Before Tim can think too much about it, or god forbid, overthink it, he hears his mouth blurt out without his brains permission,

“So do you want to come to lunch later? There is a café not far from here that I’ve never been to.”

Jon stares back for a moment, like this isn’t something he expected. Truth be told, he didn’t. But just when Tim starts thinking that he’ll decline, Jon nods slowly.

“Yes, I suppose. Just… Let me know before you’re going. I tend to, well, I tend to get lost a bit when I’m working and chances are I won’t notice how much time has passed.” he explains, and this is probably the first time he said anything personal besides his name.

“Sure, no problem. I’ll just put a giant sticky note on your monitor.” Tim offers him with a grin and wink, and as he turns around, he could swear that he catches a real smile on Jon’s face.

Tim actually does put a note on Jon’s screen though. As he was warned, all attempts to verbally get his attention have failed, so Tim scribbles a quick note for Jon.

The sticky piece of paper is bright pink and obnoxious, and all that Tim has written on it is “Lunch time!” in big bold letters, accompanied by a smiley face. He manages to walk up behind Jon, stick it right in the middle of his computer monitor and get back around to his own desk to gather his jacket and wallet before Jon squints at it through slim, rectangular glasses and blinks a few times before he remembers the conversation from earlier. Then, there is a small hint of a smile on his face, very similar to the one Tim caught in the library earlier.

He gathers his things and leaves the office with Tim, and the two of them walk next to each other comfortably as they make their way to the café.

Surprisingly, the lunch break together isn’t nearly as awkward as it could be, or should have been, really. Jon doesn’t talk much at first, and Tim has a feeling he himself is talking way too much without actually saying anything, just so his brain doesn’t drift off into the wrong direction. But then, it’s like the air has left his lungs and there is a minute or two of slightly awkward silence.

Then, Jon clears his throat and asks,

“So, did you know that snails can sleep for three years at a time?”

When Tim, surprised by the question, shakes his head, Jon starts talking about the topic in great detail as he fiddles with the edge of his napkin the whole time. Somehow, this of all things breaks the ice, and Tim finds himself to be able to breathe a little bit easier.

Even more so, he is enjoying this. He isn’t sure what he expected when he asked Jon to join him for lunch. Maybe it was just the urge for human interaction and to not be alone, which he supposes is fair enough. But he certainly didn’t expect random information about nature phenomenons. All Tim knows is that he feels better after their first break together, and after that, spending the break together becomes A Thing.

What he learns pretty fast is this: Jon is an info dumper when he feels comfortable enough to do so. As it turns out, Jon isn’t very picky with his topics, either. They range from science phenomena to weird, interesting nature facts and anything else that catches his interest.

Tim also learns that, if he is in the right company and being asked the right questions, he can hold monologues that could last for hours. He figures that one out when Jon drops a fun fact about 19th century architecture, and without thinking, picks up the loose end of the sentence and continues,

“Oh, yes, did you know that…” and thus, without even realizing it, Tim spends the entire lunch break talking about it - he is passionate about the topic, but he leaves out the details about the Covent Garden Theatre. It just hurts too much to think about, but other than that, Tim is excited about the topic. He gets so carried away and rambles on and on and on, he only stops when Jon and him get back to the institute. It takes even longer for Tim to catch up and realize that Jon just paid for both lunches while he went off on a monologue about Robert Smirke architecture. But when he tries to pay him back, Jon just waves him off.

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, your lecture was very interesting, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

From anyone else, this might have been a dig - but coming from Jon, Tim knows by now, it is a genuine statement that makes him way happier than it should.

So, their lunch breaks together quickly turn into a tradition,

Tim isn’t entirely sure what is more surprising; the fact that he manages to get Jon to actually leave his desk for human needs like food and social interaction, or that the two of them are enjoying it so much.

Sometimes, they go to cafés or restaurants, trying out places that neither of them has been to before. It turns into them picking favourites, and then they become regulars at a small handful of places. Sometimes they simply go on a quick walk to pick up some food, other times they sit down and enjoy being out of the office for a little bit.

One day, Tim arrives in the office early, and he brings lunch from home for Jon and himself for the first time.

Tim has spent the previous night wide awake, unable to rest after a nightmare startled him out of a deep sleep. It takes a long time to get his breathing back under control, and very late at night, or very early in the morning, depending how you look at it, Tim gives up on sleep. After hours of useless tossing and turning, he won’t be able to rest, he knows from experience.

Cursing under his breath, he pulls aside the covers and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. Exhausted, both in a physical and emotional sense, he scrubs a hand over his face.

The memories linger, and Tim feels like his whole chest is pulled together with anxiety and grief. Seven months. That’s how long it has been since he found Danny sitting in his dark living room in the middle of the night, crying silent tears as he had no idea what to do besides be there for him and offer comfort. Seven months since he followed his younger brother to the Royal Opera House Covent Garden and had to watch him being torn apart.

Carefully, Tim forces himself to keep breathing as evenly as possible. In - hold - out - hold - in - rinse and repeat. His hands are shaking, and he tries to force them into stillness as he grips hard at the rumpled bed sheets.

Attempting to go back to sleep is useless, he knows from experience, and so he makes his way down into the kitchen.

This house feels too big, too empty without the presence of his little brother. He left a hole in his life, and even though it’s been months since Danny died, Tim hasn’t moved a single one of his possessions. Not yet - it hurts too much.

Despite having been alone for a while now, Tim is still careful to leave the lights out in the hallway, walking as quietly as he can in the middle of the night as if there was still someone around he could wake up with his movements. It’s a long standing habit, and he isn’t sure he’ll ever shake it off.

It’s only when he arrives in the kitchen that Tim switches on the overhead light. It flickers to life, slowly, and the small kitchen is tinted into a warm light. Warm and homely, like this house once was. Now, it just feels painfully empty.

With a long sigh, Tim makes his way to the sink and fills up a glass with water - his hands are still shaking and he spills a bit onto himself, but he doesn’t care. Caring about it is too much right now, so he focuses on draining the glass empty before refilling it again. He feels dehydrated, but given the night he’s had so far, it isn’t surprising.

“I need a distraction.” he mumbles, and soon enough, he’s raided the pantry and his refrigerator. Tim pulls out some pots and pans from the cupboard, scattering everything throughout his kitchen where it’ll be most convenient. The repetitive tasks of cooking have always had a relaxing effect on him, and soon enough, the room is filled with scents and aromas that make his mouth water. Even now, while he is absolutely miserable.

The casserole ends up being huge. It’s way too much for one person, even one with an appetite. But cooking for one after being used to there being someone else is hard - kind of useless, while you’re already at it.

Tim has had that problem ever since he’s been cooking on his own, but knowing that Danny will be back to join him again, freshly back from some cave diving or urban exploration or whatever other strange new hobby he’d found at the time.

Now, Tim is all on his own. He sighs unhappily. Cooking was a good distraction, up until he is painfully reminded that no one is there anymore to share it with. Not here, at least.

He allows himself a few minutes of quiet greif, seated at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and a lukewarm cup of tea, sitting on the table by his side, almost forgotten.

By the time the sun is starting to rise, Tim is up and moving again. He has put the casserole in several plastic boxes and packs two of them into his work bag.

When he arrives at the office, way earlier than he usually does, because what is the point of staying home doing nothing, Tim places one of the boxes at the edge of Jon’s desk.

Jon seems to be mildly surprised by the early company, and even more so by the plastic box.

“Oh, Good morning... What is this?” he asks then, mildly curious.

“Lunch. I was cooking last night and it was way too much. Thought I’d bring some in to share.” Tim forces a smile along with the half-lie, if only to cover how tired he is. He needs coffee.

The “Thank you” Tim gets in response is equally surprised and genuine, and he tries very carefully to not interpret too much into it. Especially because their shared meal feels a lot more homely and strangely intimate that day. Getting takeout together or sitting somewhere is one thing, but sharing a home-cooked meal is something entirely different, he finds. He also finds that he doesn’t mind it.

Only a few days later, conveniently when every last bit of the casserole is gone, Tim finds a plastic box that isn’t one of his own sitting on his desk. Curiously, he opens it and finds it filled to the brim with homemade curry, rice and veggies. Even cold, it smells heavenly and makes his mouth water. Tim looks over to the desk opposite of him, where Jon is already typing away like he usually does, but when he looks up and finds Tim smiling brightly at him, he smiles back.

Something in his chest feels incredibly warm and fluttering.

One evening, when the two of them get out of the office equally late - Jon because he always does, and Tim because he may or may not have waited for him - they walk to the tube together.

In a spontanous fit of bravery and “Oh well, fuck it”, Tim carefully rechaes out until his own fingers gently brush against Jon’s as they walk. It’s dark outside, only illuminated by the countless lights that illuminate the shops and pubs and the sides of the street they’re walking along. Tim does so casually and carefully enough to be ignored or taken as a coincidence if needed be, just in case. But then his heart almost stops for a second when after a moment of stiffness, Jon accepts the offer and closes his own fingers around Tim’s.

His touch is light at first, but then his grip tightens a bit, warm and comfortably so, and it is clear that his heart is in it. Of course it is - the two of them have gotten close in the last few weeks and months. There might have been some wishful thinking on Tim’s end involved - Jon is not always great at picking up social cues, especially romantic ones.

“That’s fine though” he tells him later, “You’re a huge enough flirt to make it up for the both of us.”

Jon squeezes his hand, and Tim happily squeezes back as he keeps walking beside him, just a little bit closer than before.

He can’t help but smile. Something like happiness blooms in his chest, and even though they don’t talk about it the entire way, even though they keep holding hands when they sit next to each other in the tube, they remain this close all the way until their ways separate and they have to get onto a different line each. It feels right, and the sudden loss of touch as their ways separate makes Tim wish it could last - but turning back and running after the other train seems kind of silly now, especially since he’ll see Jon again the very next day.

This becomes A Thing as well. Touching, that is.

Holding hands, brushing along each other when they reach for folders or mugs or books in the library. Speaking of which, Tim has learned very quickly that there is no way to stop Jon from literally climbing high spaces to reach whatever he needs. As of now, he is long used to watching him scale a bookshelf or kitchen counter, much to his own amusement.

“Hold on tight, little monkey.” he tells him as he walks past, grinning from ear to ear, knowing full well that he can’t expect more than a scoff and,

“Oh, shut up.” as a response.

Tim keeps it up though - because it’s fun and he knows he’s allowed to get away with it. Which can’t be said for anyone else in the institute, not like anyone would have tried as far as he knows. But he is ridiculously proud of it nonetheless. Tim is still cackling to himself when he wraps an arm around the other man’s shoulders and keeps chatting away to him all the way back into the research offices.

He has always been very openly affectionate, with family, friends and romantic partners or those he’d fancied. It’s part of who he is, and if he is honest with himself, it feels good to have some part of him back that’s always been there. It helps a bit, and even more so since Jon not only happily lets him, he also leans back into the touch. Jon’s attempts at seeking out touch are a lot more subtle than Tim’s, at least at first, but he knows and recognizes it for the sign of trust and comfort that it is.

That afternoon, there isn’t much time to chat at their desks, but about an hour before they’re supposed to get off, a balled up piece of paper hits Tim’s hand, clearly coming from Jon, but the sneaky bastard isn’t giving indication that he stopped reading at all.

With a small smile, Tim opens the note. It’s not like Mr. Workaholic to pass notes on the clock, but then again, he has to give Jon credit for loosening up significantly since the day they met. Or, maybe warmed up to human company is more like it. (He very carefully tries not to think, or more like hope, that it's him in particular Jon has warmed up to so much. But then again, Tim has heard some of their coworkers whisper in astonishment that it’s completely unheard of that Jonathan Sims leaves his desk for breaks or in time in the evenings, let alone interacting with other human beings more than absolutely necessary. Tim also caught the rumors about the two of them being a couple - he’d almost laughed then. He fucking wishes .)

Tim unfolds the note and reads;

“I have a lot of leftover curry I made last night. Would you like to come over for dinner after work? - J.”

This has become A Thing, too. Sharing meals after work and sometimes on the weekends. It alternates where they go, but especially lately, they have preferred to go to either Tim’s house or Jon’s apartment instead of a restaurant. For one, going out to eat on a regular basis is expensive, but also, cooking together or eating the leftovers from a late night cooking binge is a lot more comfortable and homely.

Sharing a meal and oftentimes a couch with someone fills at least part of the void that Tim finds inside of himself. He is struggling still, but having another human being in his personal space, warm and alive and happy to be there, means the world to him. He’s feeling something again, something that isn’t constant fear or everlasting sadness.

They watch movies sometimes - it’s not exactly easy to find something that both of them like . Their tastes in movies are widely different from each other, so instead, they opt to choose obscure sci-fi movies or anything they can pick apart and make fun of. No horror - they haven’t talked about it, but this is one of the few movie-related things they are in silent agreement over.

Truth be told, poking fun at bad movies together is much more entertaining than watching anything the normal way.

They are stuffing their faces with snacks and complain at the protagonists for making very unwise or straight up unrealistic decisions, even in-universe illogical ones. They pick apart plot-points and anything that doesn’t add up while they share space on the couch, either holding hands or leaning against one another.

“Oh, of course, give me a break!” Jon grouses as he shakes his hand that is currently holding a few crisps at the TV, annoyed to no end, it seems. In truth, he is enjoying this. He enjoys this an awful lot, and so does Tim.

He laughs out loud and pulls Jon a little closer to his side.

“Yes, you tell the creepy alien why it’s mere existence even in this fictional universe doesn’t make sense, Love!” He eggs him on, and only realizes the pet name has slipped out of his mouth by the time he notices the deep blush creeping on Jon’s face. Oh shit.

“Now don’t say anything to fuck this up, for once in you life, just shut up!” Tim thinks to himself, carefully trying to remain as calm as he can. They’ve been holding hands for ages and they keep cuddling up on the couch - this isn’t anything unexpected, for heaven’s sake. Hell, if Jon were anyone different, they might have ended up in bed already, but Tim is aware that this probably isn’t going to happen anytime soon - or at all, if he isn’t entirely mistaken, based on the hints and observations. First and foremost the slow and careful way in which their relationship to each other is changing and developing, but then again, he knows what the simple black ring on the middle finger on a person’s right hand usually means.

Tim doesn’t ask though - he figures that if Jon wants to talk about it, he will do so eventually and at his own pace.

So, Tim doesn’t push anything and carefully waits for a response. But there isn’t one, or at least nothing verbal. Instead of saying anything, neither to Tim or about the movie, Jon simply scoots a little bit closer to him, leaning against him and doesn’t let go of his hand. Tim takes this as a win and leans his head against the tuft of long black hair that tickles his cheek.

Both of them relax in an instant, and if they end up falling asleep on the couch, legs a tangled mess and with the TV still on, well, the next morning isn’t nearly as awkward as it might have been once upon a time.

It takes Tim, way longer than it should to realize that, for the first time in a long while, he didn’t startle awake screaming that night. Company helps. It helps a lot. Just knowing that there is someone else, that he isn’t alone and doesn’t have to wake up to an eerily empty house anymore helps.

Tim doesn’t fool himself into thinking that everything will magically resolve itself - he knows it won't, especially because his research about the circus isn’t going anywhere yet.

Sometimes, he feels guilty. Guilty for not spending every waking minute searching for hints, searching for answers to the things that have taken his brother and traumatized him for life. The calmer, logical part of his brain is aware that it doesn’t work like that - he needs a break sometimes, needs the time to himself and spend it with other people…. And goddammit, he deserves to be happy.

Danny would have kicked his arse if he could hear him think this, would have told him to get a grip and do something that makes him happy. Because this is what scares him sometimes - the happiness, the times where he doesn’t think of the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden or circuses and… Skin. Just the thought alone makes him shudder, but he can’t stop thinking about those memories sometimes.

“...Are you alright?”

Tim blinks, not having realized that he must have zoned out. He’s still on the couch, slowly waking up and with Jon tucked somewhere next to him. He doesn’t sound very awake yet, but there is concern in his voice as he fixes Tim with a very direct look.

“I- yes, just. Zoned out a bit there.” Tim shoots him his best bright smile, hoping he’ll be able to chase away the ghosts. At least for now. He sighs, and happily leans into the touch and hugs back when he can feel a pair of slim arms snaking around his waist. Jon doesn’t say anything, but he seems to pick up that something is bothering Tim. And much like him in emotional situations, Jon doesn’t know what to say. So he remains close and thankfully, this is exactly what Tim needs right now. Just being close to someone he cares a whole lot about, feeling their heartbeat near his own. Being held for a bit. He squeezes Jon in silent gratitude for being there, and hopes he can get across what he can’t say.

It is Saturday and they have a whole weekend in front of them. After they peel themselves off of the couch, they stumble off to the bathroom after one another and then to the kitchen in an attempt to fuel themselves with tea and breakfast. It’s painfully, beautifully domestic.

While he is keeping an eye on several pans on the propane stove, Tim is chatting away about something - he isn’t exactly sure himself, except it is something pointless that distracts him from his earlier train of thought. Jon and him are laughing and joking while they drink tea and prepare breakfast together. But after a while it looks like Jon wants to say something, stops himself, and then more of the same all over again.

Eventually, Tim can’t watch him struggle over it anymore and straight out asks,

“Hey. What’s going on in that fuzzy head of your’s?”

It’s true - both of them still have a severe case of bed-heads, and Jon huffs at the question and tries to smooth down a few of the stubborn flyaways around his face. Only very mildly successful.

“I… Was going to ask something.”

“Alright? Shoot.” Tim very, very carefully swallows the joke he was about to make in the end - if this is going where he hopes it might, he doesn’t want one god awful pun to be part of the memory of it. So he waits.

Jon seems to be bracing himself, and then he turns around to face Tim.

“I would like to kiss you. Is that okay?” he asks. A simple question, and yet - it means so much. Tim smiles at him, heart beating out of his chest as he steps closer to Jon.

“Yes, I’d love that.”

There are only mere inches separating them. Both Jon and Tim cross the last of the distance at once, hands searching for each other. Their fingers are interlacing tightly as soon as they touch, and just a split second later, their lips meet for the first time. There is no rush, nothing in this world that would get them to hurry anything up at this moment. Slowly, they kiss again and again, tasting faintly of the tea they had earlier, but even more so, it feels like comfort. Maybe even a little bit like home.

A quiet happiness settles deep into them, and something seems to click into place. They are happy, and there is nowhere they’d rather be than anywhere, as long as they can be together.

After a little while, their hands let go of each other, but only so they can pull one another closer. One of Tim’s hands is cupped around Jon’s cheek, thumb gently stroking over the soft stubble while his other arm remains wrapped around him, hand resting at the small of his back. Jon on the other hand, has to angle his head up a bit due to their height difference, but he doesn’t mind that at all. Both of his arms are wrapped around Tim’s torso, and if it was possible, he would like to remain like this forever.

Unfortunately for the two of them, life has other plans.

When the smell of something burning registers with the two of them, they regretfully break apart cursing and laughing as they quickly remove the pans from the heat.

“That was - good lord, why now of all times?” Breathlessly and more than a little high from happy brain chemicals, they try to get a grip on themselves and on the situation.

“Just like our luck, isn’t it?” Tim is joking, of course, but still. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

“This better not become a habit.” Jon glares at the charred eggs and smoking pans as if they personally insulted him. He’d been having a good time, but of course something had to happen. Oh well.

“We’ll just have to make up for it.” Tim winks at him, grinning widely. He doesn’t mean much by it, and he only realizes how that might have come across when Jon awkwardly clears his throat and says,

“The kissing? Yes, absolutely. Other things… Well, most other things, actually… Not so much. I erm, I should have said that before now, I suppose. But, I’m Asexual.” he chooses his words slowly and deliberately, like he is trying to say them exactly right.

Tim looks into his eyes, bright green and shining with happiness, but now, there is something else creeping into them. Self-doubt, insecurities - Tim isn’t sure, but he wants to do his best to make the doubts disappear - and apologize for his big mouth.

“That’s absolutely fine. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that - I wasn’t implying anything else, I promise.”

Slowly, Jon nods, visibly relaxed now. He asks,

“So… We’re good?”

“We are. More than good actually, if you ask me.” Tim finds himself smiling again, which is something he’s been doing so much more lately. Then he tucks away a strand of hair from Jon’s face and kisses him again, just as gentle as before. He is happy to find that he returns the kiss in an instant, pushing close until the two of them end up pressed up against the kitchen table. After they break apart again, they remain standing in an embrace.

“I like you, Jon. I like you a lot. I love being around you and with you, just for who you are. Yes, I enjoy sex, but I don’t need it. So if you don’t want to, that is okay and it doesn’t make a difference to me. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

He nearly says, “I love you” but that might be a little early - saying it too early has ruined his relationships in the past, and although what Jon and he have is something different, Tim doesn’t want to risk it.

But as it turns out, he said the right thing. Jon looks a lot more relaxed than before, and he keeps a loose hold around Tim’s hips.

“Thank you, Tim, that’s… Very reassuring actually. I’ve been with people who reacted quite a bit differently to this, so” Jon shrugs, but it is clear that this isn’t a happy memory.

“I appreciate you.” He adds, and Tim pulls him a little bit closer.

“I’m sorry. These people fucking suck.”

“That’s one way to put it, yes.” Jon smiles, and pulls Tim down for another, longer kiss. It feels just as intoxicating as before. Then he tells him,

“And, just for the record. I like you a lot, and spending time with you makes me very happy.

The giddy happiness stays with them - being freshly in love and being freshly together is exciting. It is a feeling Tim will never get tired of. The thing is, being together with Jon doesn’t change a whole lot - they are still on opposite desks from each other at work, they still spend their lunch breaks together and Tim actually manages to get Jon to leave the office at 5pm these days, instead of late at night like he did for the longest time. They still have dinner together most days and they often spend their weekends together. All of these are things they did before, but now, it still feels… Different.

Then of course, there are the casually affectionate touches throughout the day. They’d like to think that they’re being more discreet here, but then again, at least Tim has never been shy about throwing arms around people or bumping shoulders or anything like that. In fact, people would probably get concerned and suspicious if he stopped doing any of it.

The point is: they keep it down to normal levels at work, but they seem to be glued together whenever they’re off the clock. Whether they hold hands, hug, kiss, bump shoulders, hips, arms or hands, or sometimes simply nap stacked on top of each other, they are always touching in some way. Both of them soak up the contact like sponges, and they know without having even talked about it in detail that they spent quite a bit of time lonely and touch starved before… This. Their relationship.

Waking up with one another in the mornings is probably Tim’s favourite part of all. Holding onto each other with their legs tangled together, hands searching for warm skin to rest on and heads pillowed on each other's shoulder or chest. Sharing breaths of air - all of this feels wonderful and intimate in it’s own way, and he can’t get enough of it.

Waking up in the morning is a peaceful thing. But some nights, unfortunately, are not. Both of them have nightmares on a regular basis. They find that they generally sleep better when they are not alone, and having someone to hold close or bury into when the lingering horrors hit, helps significantly.

Some nights, it’s Jon who startles awake in the middle of the night, eyes wide and chest heaving as he frantically looks around himself until he realizes where he is, or until Tim wakes up and mumbles quiet reassurances into his hair as he holds him close until the tremors have calmed down.

If they’re lucky, they manage to fall back asleep after a while, but if not, they simply stay awake, cuddled up under soft blankets and they just talk. Their topics of conversation vary widely, ranging from silly, lighthearted distractions to things they did or experienced in their past, as well as heartfelt conversations that are about much more than just that.

Tim himself has his fair share of nightmares as well, ever since he lost Danny. And even though having Jon close by and being held at night helps to keep them at bay sometimes, there are still nights where he startles awake either screaming or crying or both.

The first time it happens, Tim wakes up terrified and tangled in the sheets. His shirt clings to the cold sweat that is running down his back and his breath comes out in irregular, shaky bursts.

A dimly lit circus arena, old and dusty with centuries of dirt. Tim can’t move. It’s like he is rooted to the spot, and yet, his legs won’t stop shaking. He is shivering from the cold - no surprise, since he ran out in nothing but his pyjamas earlier, and this place is surprisingly freezing for a hot August night. Tim can feel the cold, but more so than anything, he is absolutely terrified.

He wants to scream, to run, do anything but stand here - but it’s impossible. The crumpled form of his brother - or the Thing that pretends to be Danny - sits motionless and hunched over, no matter how much Tim tries to call out for him. Not a single word leaves his throat, even though his vocal cords hurt from the strain he’s been putting on them. But Danny doesn’t hear him - can’t hear him.

From out of the shadows, Tim can see… Something. It looks like a clown, but it’s wrong. Too long, too folded up to be human. It drags itself across the floor slowly and grotesquely, like a creature from a horror movie, up until it stops. Unlike a movie creature though, this is very much reality.

Breathing is hard, and Tim wants to force his body to move, but still, there is nothing he can do. Part of him wants to believe that this… Place, this Thing is influencing his ability to move somehow, but then again, he might just as well be paralyzed by fear.

The clown moves forward, right towards Danny. As it unfurls itself, it is clear that there are smears of blood all over its face, red and bold and dripping wet.

“Shall I?” it asks, with a voice that is playful in the worst possible way. Too happy, and way too sinister. Tim can’t even answer, still unable to talk or move or do anything, but he can feel the bile rise in his throat. He wants to grab Danny and run, but knows he can’t. He wants to scream, cry or throw up, anything but watch the scene unfolding in front of him.

None of this happens though.

Instead, Tim is forced to stand motionless and helpless, watching in agony and horror as the clown moves much more quickly than he could have anticipated. It’s not as much that he can actually see the movement, but Tim can feel it. He can feel the breeze of air on his face, and just a split second later, it has removed the entirety of Danny’s skin. His limp, bloody and bare form slumps forward, and it is only then that Tim actually starts screaming.

He is screaming his head off, loud, desperate and terrified. Tim is shaking like a leaf. Breathing is impossible, and it takes him way too long to realize that in order to breathe, he needs to calm down for just a second. It takes even longer for him to realize that he is at home, safely in bed and long out of this situation. But Danny… Danny is just as dead.

Between ragged, forced breaths, Tim is curling in on himself, unable to register that Jon has woken up and is talking to him in a low, concerned voice. He tries to get his partner to calm down at least a bit, afraid he’ll end up hyperventilating from panic.

Tim doesn’t register any of it. He can’t make out Jon’s gentle voice trying to bring him back, doesn’t register the light, careful touch on his arm in an attempt to soothe without scaring him further. Tim curls himself into a tight, shaking ball without noticing any of it.

After the first initial panic, there is a brief moment of silence, but after that, he breaks. Ragged breath turns into uncontrollable, hiccuping sobs and it is only then that Tim realizes the familiar pair of arms slipping around him in a protective embrace. He uncurls just enough to be able to hug back and let Jon slip closer to him, which he does as soon as humanly possible. Tim clings onto him for dear life as Jon curls himself around him in what must be an uncomfortable or at least awkward position, but this is the last thing on his mind. All Jon cares about right now is making sure that Tim is okay, or at least, as okay as he can be.

Their bodies are pressed flush together, tightly enough for them to feel each other's rapidly beating hearts hammering out of their chests. Tim tries to focus on that, tries to focus on the carefully even rhythm of breath that Jon attempts to get him to follow.

His presence is constant, warm and comforting. Tim can feel his weight on top of himself, the hold of his arms around him. Strands of hair and warm breath on his neck are a familiar sensation as well, something he’s been getting used to lately. Even more so, it is something that Tim loves and associates with home by now. And while the fear and pain caused by his nightmare are still very much lingering, he is able to relax in order to calm down eventually. Slowly but surely, a little bit over the course of - he doesn’t even know how long.

Time has lost all meaning at this point. It might take him minutes or hours to breathe normally again, and at some point, Tim realizes that the steady stream of talking, besides the quiet attempts to comfort and assure him, are actually bits and pieces of random information. Anything to keep talking and keep up a steady presence, Tim supposes, but he is eternally grateful for it. He shifts a bit, arms still wrapped tightly around Jon, although he’s stopped clinging as much by now. He stretches out a little bit without letting go of their embrace - everything hurts from holding himself so tense for so long. Then Tim pulls the both of them onto their side so they can cuddle properly.

Gentle hands keep running through his messy mop of purple hair, blunt nails scratching against his scalp. Tim leans into it, soaking up the touch like a sponge. He’s stopped shaking now, he notices, and he registers a lot more sensations than he did before.

Little sounds around the house, wind outside, the occasional car. Most of all, he registers all the different little touches from Jon, and the way he keeps talking to him even now.

After a while, he leans in to kiss Tim’s forehead, thumbs wiping away a few stray tears. It seems like the worst of the storm is over by now, but Jon stays close. He’s never seen Tim in such a state, and it worries him to no end. At least it looks like he isn’t in severe panic anymore.

“Do you want to talk?” Jon asks quietly, but all Tim can manage is shake his head. It's not like he could talk right now if he tried. He doesn't trust his voice, knowing it will break, which is probably going to set him off again and he's not ready to face that.

Maybe, a part of him wants to talk about what happened. Sure, it is going to hurt regardless, whenever he decides he is ready for it, but there is no doubt that it will help to get it off of his chest. But Tim doesn’t know how he is supposed to talk about the horrors he's witnessed. Where would he even start? How does he explain all of it without sounding - well.

“That’s alright.” Jon tightens his hold around Tim as he shifts a little bit, without letting go, so he can rest his head on top of Tim’s. There is a quiet, almost suffocating sadness radiating off of him, and even though he doesn’t know what happened that got him into this state, Jon offers him all the support he can, in any way he knows how. Physical touch seems to help a lot, thankfully. That, he can do forever.

“I’m here for you. Whatever it is you need, I’m here.”

The sun is starting to rise on the horizon, but Tim and Jon remain in bed, wrapped up around each other just like before. Birds are starting to sing outside, even before the first rays of the morning sun tint the room into a low light.

“I love you. I’m here for you, and I love you.”

Notes:

#Archival Pride 2021 #Banashee writes #tma fanfic #JonTim #the magnus archives #tw trauma #tw death #tw blood and violence #mind the tags and CWs please

9 notes · View notes

planetesastraea · 3 years

Text

On the tip of his fingers

Geraskier, Modern AU - Mature - 6 277 words - Warnings: none

First meetings, himbo Geralt, bisexual Geralt (even if he’s just finding out), bottom Geralt (that too), top Jaskier, first time, handjobs, banter, praise kink, consent kink

Betaed by Micaela Dawn: she’s a wonderful artist and beta, check out her work!

Read on AO3

The bar was oddly crowded for a Wednesday night and Geralt was trying his best to not look as out of place as he felt. He had to be there, were Yen's words. And once Triss and Sabrina heard he was trying to get out of the team’s celebratory night out, his fate had been sealed.

"You deserve this too," Yen had said. “You’ve been working your ass off as much as we’ve all been and you deserve to blow off some steam.”

“I can blow off some steam at home.”

“Playing Skittles-stake Gwent with our teenage daughter doesn’t count. Also you promised you’d spend more time with the team outside of work-”

“I actually never agreed to that,”

“-so you’re coming.”

And so here he was, wearing one of his black button down shirts and a comfortable pair of jeans with an empty beer bottle in his hand, making casual conversation over the slightly too-loud music and praying to the highest powers that the girls wouldn’t try to get him to dance. Triss and Yen had met him in front of the bar to make sure he wouldn’t turn away once he had a look inside the place. As soon as he had been close enough, Triss had reached a hand out to his collar, making a tsk sound.

“What are we going to do with you, hm?”, she had whispered to herself as she had opened the top two buttons of his shirt and pulled his collar a little wider.

“Hey, be gentle,” Yen had cut in softly. “At least he lost the tie.”

They had cackled in unison as he rolled his eyes, yet unable to fake annoyance as a smile drew itself on his lips. With one of the women clinging to each of his arms, the three of them comfortably slid together as they walked into the place.

He liked being around them. Over the years things had been several levels of complicated and then some, but the three of them had found their pace eventually. Triss and Yen liked to mock him and he liked to act dumber than he actually was- well, most of the time. His social skills still didn’t reach that high.

As it turned out, you could learn a lot about people by staying at the office several nights in a row working a gigantic case, taking turns on who would get to doze off for twelve minutes on the couch and who was to blame for the soy sauce on page 86 of the Claremont contract. And damn did Triss and Yen know him well. Which was why they had dutifully waited for him outside the bar. Claiming he looked for them but gave up because of how packed the place was would definitely have been among his top three excuses to go back home and relieve Eskel of his Uncle duties. (Both he and Ciri would have been terribly disappointed and that was about 75% of the reasons why he had made it to the party).

They had been here for a couple of hours now, had done a good amount of talking and heard some more-than-other alright bands take to the stage. One of the junior associates further away from him called “Hey, here’s Sabrina!!” and Geralt turned towards the sound of Sabrina’s voice going “You guys are not going to believe this!” when something, or, well, someone, slammed right into him.

“Owww, holy shit I’m so sorry, you alright?”

The man was carrying two pints that had probably been full to the brim before he collided with Geralt. Luckily most of what spilled had hit the floor (he didn't need a repeat of the 2017 "Wet-Shirt Contest Winner" from when a sink pipe had blown up in the men's room. Lambert had walked in, taken a thousand pictures and emailed memes to the whole floor for weeks).

Geralt’s shoes had been fairly sticky with booze already so it wasn't much trouble.

“I’m fine,” he said and that’s when he noticed the other man had come to a full stop, eyes locked on him intently, lips slightly parted. The eyeliner around his eyes was a bit smeared and Geralt recognized him as one of the singers from earlier.

“That you are,” he murmured in a low tone, almost to himself. Geralt blinked.

“Yes. I am,” he said back louder in hope to maybe clear out the odd look on the other man’s face. Just because he was tall, well-built and, well, apparently, somewhat broody, people expected him to get pissed at the slightest things.

“I’m Julian," the guy said and Geralt smiled politely, unsure why the stranger would introduce himself.

“Geralt,” he replied at the same time Julian went “But you can call me Jaskier!” and then “I’m sorry, what was that?”

It was like his words were running faster than his thoughts.

“Geralt. My name is Geralt,” he repeated.

“Oh. Nice to meet you, Geralt.” Jaskier’s lips rose to one side and he tilted his head slightly. Geralt was way more used to people trying to avoid looking at him, he had his unusual colored eyes to thank for that. They were easily disturbing and while people didn't always show discomfort, they at least showed restraint. Jaskier didn't have an ounce of it and Geralt had absolutely no idea what to do with that.

“Can I get you another drink?” Jaskier blurted out.

“Mine was already empty. That’s your drink on the floor,” Geralt replied as the other man chuckled, eyes looking down briefly.

“Right,” he raised his eyes and licked his lips. “Offer still stands. Can I get you another drink?”

“Hm,” Geralt said, his well-known wording skills kicking in. “My friends are-” he turned around thinking he’d find Anica and Tiff where he had left them only to realise they had disappeared among the crowd. In the far back he recognized Triss and Yen dancing on a table like nothing in the world could stop them and any back-up plan he was about to use evaporated.

Jaskier raised his eyebrows, eyes twinkling. Give other people a chance, Yen’s voice said in Geralt's head and the line of his shoulders softened. Jaskier’s eyes hadn’t moved from him for even a second. Maybe it wasn’t that bad.

“Sure,” Geralt aimed for a neutral tone but sounded nervous even to his own ears. The other man’s smile widened.

They found two empty stools that felt oddly closer than those in Geralt’s bars usually were - but then again most of Geralt’s bars were hotel lobbies on work trips or the kind where he could take a whole bottle for himself and sit in a corner where no one would dare bother him. (He hadn't been in one of those in a while. He didn’t miss it.)

Jaskier set an ale in front of him and Geralt faintly wondered who it was originally destined for.

“So what are you doing here tonight? I’ve never seen you around,” Jaskier started.

“Celebrating,” he said, in a voice that hardly sounded celebratory.

“Is it your birthday?”

“No,” he replied, vaguely gesturing to his group of friends who were lost to the crowd, “with colleagues. We closed in on a deal."

"What kind of business do you work in?" The other man seemed way more interested in learning about Geralt than actually drinking the ale. Geralt shrugged, a wordless version of his usual ‘hm’.

“All of them. We're a law firm.”

“Oh! Well, congrats by the way!" Jaskier said and then leaned in and using a secretive tone he added, "I mean, you didn’t help a dangerous criminal get away with it, did you?”

Geralt grimaced and prepared himself to lose Jaskier’s interest in his job entirely.

“Not that kind of lawyers.”

“What kind, then?”

“Corporate.”

To his surprise, Jaskier kept nodding.

“So what was the deal about? Please tell me you’re the kind of firm on David’s side and not on Goliath's.”

“It’s rarely as straightforward as that,” Geralt mused and took a drink of his ale.

Jaskier hummed softly.

“What was this one anyway?”

“I can’t disclose any details,” he hedged and Jaskier chuckled.

“Oh, you can’t disclose any details, can you?” he leaned again, this time his arm and shoulder pressing against Geralt's.

“No, I can’t,” Geralt articulated again to make sure Jaskier would hear him. Music rarely ever left anyone’s hearing intact after a few years, maybe that was why the man kept leaning closer.

“Anything I’ll hear about on the news?”

“The local ones, maybe.”

“Well aren't you a man of mystery.” Their shoulders bumped again. Geralt didn't remember at which point he had rolled up his sleeves but his forearms felt oddly comfortable being that close to someone else's skin. It had been a while since he had even given thought to someone else's skin.

There was still a band playing on the stage out of his sight, a crowd surrounding them, people all along the bar calling for the bartender’s attention, noises and lights everywhere and yet, somehow, in the ocean of stimuli, his attention was focused on Jaskier.

"Maybe I should take your number then?" Jaskier said, wriggling an eyebrow. "As legal counsel. For when law enforcement catches up with me."

“What would they catch you for?” he asked, willing to take the bait.

“Oh, there’s quite the list,” Jaskier said. “I’m afraid I have a rather criminal past. There’s the illegal bus riding, parking in client-only spots,” he counted on his fingers, adding each theatrically. “I once shook a vending machine to get my chocolate bar and got a second one I didn’t pay for.”

“Hmm. I think you might get away with those,” Geralt answered, taking a drink from his pint.

“Well I guess all is left is the case of indecent exposure.”

The man had a nonchalant demeanor about him but his eyes were focused on Geralt and definitely didn't miss the way he almost choked on the ale. Geralt only then realised how much of Jaskier’s chest was visible. He registered vaguely how he’d never had an interest in other people’s collar bones before and realised he had forgotten where they were going with this.

"Hmm,” he cleared his throat, trying to look unbothered. “Like I said, not my area of expertise."

He saw Jaskier lick his lips and something in his eyes reminded him of the decisive moment that came with all his negotiations.

"How about we get out of here and you show me your area of expertise?"

"What?" He couldn’t have heard that right. Jaskier’s eyes softened and his hand hovered over his bare forearm.

"I'm saying I want to take you home.” There was a beat and Geralt swallowed, the taste of ale still on his lips. His conversations with other people definitely didn’t go like that. The peak of panic might have been obvious on his face because Jaskier’s fingers touched his wrist and he spoke into his ear. "I'm making a move on you, Geralt,” he said kindly, “and I don’t know if you’re too polite to decline or if I’m being too subtle-” he pulled back to look at him and his face was so fucking close. “Which, honestly, would be a first! So... What do you think?”

What did he think? His mind was an uninhabited fish tank. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a light flicker. He blinked again, looking at Jaskier’s lips. His brain whispered pretty, and right then, because life always loved fucking with him, the lights and the music went out.

There was a deafening silence for a moment when everyone held their breath and then lights as bright as day came on. The crowd booed. "Oh for fuck's sake, it's the third time this month," Jaskier grumbled. “Sorry my dear but duty calls!”

He stepped down from his stool only to hoist himself up onto the bar. "Not to worry, gentlepeople!" he called out like he was standing on a stage rather than a drink-sticky counter. "The lights will go down and the music back on again as soon as our beloved Essi, Mistress of the house, puts that freaking generator back on! And in the meantime, if you would please allow this humble bard to entertain you,” he took a dramatic bow and rose up again. “Someone please toss me a folk guitar; drinks are on me!"

The crowd cheered and Jaskier got down behind the bar as one of the crew members passed over the guitar. He went off in a cheery song some people started singing along to, bathing in the crowd's energy like he breathed that very element.

Something funny and complicated was happening in Geralt's chest when a hand gently grabbed his arm.

"Come on, let's go!" Yen. "It was getting boring anyway!"

Geralt squinted at her.

"You were dancing on a table,"

"Yeah, exactly!"

It didn’t make the slightest sense but most of his conversations with Yen ended with her radiating with knowledge and him feeling stupid anyway.

"I was talking with someone," he said and instantly felt like a small child very proud to say he made a friend.

"You were what?" her voice pitched up and Geralt could tell she was a bit on the tipsy side. "Where are they?"

He looked around and back towards the other side of the bar where Jaskier was singing and playing among the crowd, flawlessly winking and flirting with every person around.

"You're right,” his voice sounded strained even to his own ears and he had to blame it on the sleepless nights. “Let's go."

It had been two weeks since they had secured the Jackdows contract and Geralt was still deep in paperwork. He'd taken yet another two-hour video call with Alveaenerle and he was starting to think that maybe Triss was right and the woman was mostly dealing with him for his looks rather than for the sake of legal liaison.

He heard the elevator doors open and checked the clock. It wouldn’t be the first time he had worked through the whole night, only noticing at 4am when the janitor came in that he had forgotten to go home. Since then, he had promised Ciri he would try to get decent amounts of sleep while she was away at Yen’s and he didn’t like breaking his promises.

When he looked through the glass wall of his shared office, however, he didn’t see the janitor. Instead, and he checked twice in case it might have been a case of insomnia-induced hallucination, Jaskier was standing in the hall. He seemed hesitant, looking right and left for any indication that he was in the right place until he saw Geralt through the office’s glass walls.

They blinked at each other, seemingly unable to move until Jaskier slowly raised a hand and waved. Geralt kicked himself and walked out of his office.

“Hey,” Jaskier said, looking a bit sheepish. "Remember me?"

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asked, straightforward as ever.

“Uh,” Jaskier said. “The security guy let me in. He must have thought I was a delivery boy or something. I uh, I got your favourite,” he raised a hand holding a paper bag that Geralt had been too distracted to notice. “From across the street? Oh! Your friend Tiff was at the bar. She said you were still at work so I thought you’d like to have dinner maybe? And like, not with me, necessarily, just, you gotta eat right?” His words were starting to run together, and Geralt didn’t see any end in sight. “And so I figured, the place across the street, they had to know your favourite. ‘Big lawyer man with long white hair’ doesn't fit many of their clients' profiles. Anyway, dinner. For you. I could stay too, if you want, I mean I am simply starving-” he emphasized the word and then looked panicked again. “Wait, was that a yes, by the way? You know who I am, right? Otherwise this is going to get so awkward-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted.

“Yes!" He beamed. "That's me. Jaskier."

“I’m still not sure what you’re doing here.”

Jaskier froze for a moment, losing his shine. “We didn’t get to finish that conversation the other night. I thought that maybe...” Balancing his weight from a feet to another, he looked younger in the office light. He didn't finish his sentence, and looked like he was waiting for Geralt to respond.

“I’m working.”

“Right.”

“I’m at work,” Geralt gestured back at his office.

“Yeah, I know, I just thought- I- You're right, this was a stupid idea. Invasive, even. God what am I doing-” he took a frantic step backwards, and then thrust out the paper bag in some sort of peace offering. “Well, you should have this anyway, I mean- you have to eat, right? I said that already. Did I say that already?” He put the paper bag down on the closest cubicle desk then started walking backwards. “Sorry for,” he gestured vaguely, “showing up like that. Uh. It won’t happen again.”

Jaskier turned around, starting towards the elevators with his hand rubbing the back of his neck, and Geralt thought he heard him swearing under his breath something that sounded very much like ‘such a fucking idiot’.

An uneasy feeling filled Geralt’s chest as he watched Jaskier walk away. He didn’t know what he was doing and he didn’t know what he wanted or why he wanted anything but he knew he didn't want this.

“Jaskier,” he called and felt so very glad no one else was working late on his floor.

“Yeah?” Jaskier turned back instantly, his face lit up by a beacon of hope.

“Do you… Do you do this often?” he asked hesitantly and felt stupid about it as soon as he heard himself. There was a beat of Jaskier looking around at the empty place before he walked back towards Geralt slowly.

“Chasing down a guy I talked to for thirty minutes because I just can’t fucking stop thinking about him? No. No, I don’t. First time, actually.”

Geralt watched the musician, noting the soft, hopeful smile forming at the corner of his lips, the closing and opening of his hands at his sides, and the way the office light was reflecting in Jaskier’s eyes.

“Twenty minutes? I need to wrap something up. Then I’m free. For dinner.” Geralt amended.

Jaskier let go of the breath he had been holding and a full smile slowly graced his face again.

“Sure. Take your time. We can heat up the food at my place.”

If twenty minutes had been a promise, Geralt would have broken it. Ten minutes later, he was done with work for the day and on his way to Jaskier’s.

“So which one are you?" Jaskier asked, leaning over his kitchen counter after discarding the take-away wrappings. "VGB or Morhen?”

“Neither,”

“Oh. I thought you were.”

“Disappointed?”

Jaskier chuckled. “No. Well, a bit, I mean," he raised a shoulder lazily and faked disappointment, "I thought you were one of those big-shot lawyers.”

“I am. I’m just not a name partner.”

"So you're a regular partner then?"

“Just barely."

"Is that a thing?"

"Hmm." Geralt took a whole second to think about it and found himself oddly relaxed with answering the question. “I have a daughter.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s voice was oddly tight.

“Yen and I have a deal. She leads the boat on the job side, excels and enjoys herself in the career she’s always wanted and worked so hard for. I pull the hours she needs me to but our focus is our daughter.”

“You and Yen.”

“Yes.”

"Wait, like Triss's dancing on tables Yenna?" Jaskier’s eyes were widening in realisation.

"Yes."

"Is she Morhen?"

Geralt shook his head. "Vengerberg."

"And she’s your ex."

"Yes."

“Are you still-”

“Friends, yes.”

Jaskier nodded slowly and seemed to be thinking about something. He put his glass away and leaned against the counter, closer to Geralt. “Do you know what you’re doing here, Geralt?” he asked so low it was almost a whisper.

Geralt couldn’t help but cast a look at his lips. “Not really.”

Jaskier slowly slipped his hand up Geralt’s forearm and the hair at the back of his neck rose.

“I was thinking maybe I could kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

Geralt found himself suddenly very much too out of breath to answer.

"Geralt?"

"Yes."

"Yes, as in you're still with me or yes-"

"Both." Geralt interrupted before he had the chance to change his mind.

Jaskier looked surprised for a second then stood up on his toes to close the small space that was left between them. He pressed his lips against Geralt's; chaste and dry and sweet. When was the last time Geralt had been kissed like that? With care?

Jaskier's lips moved with his and Geralt felt the tip of the other man’s tongue against his lower lip, asking for permission. He granted it without question.

"Geralt?"

Geralt kissed him again and couldn't help the sigh that escaped when Jaskier's teeth grazed against his lips.

"Hmm?"

They shared another kiss.

"Couch?"

And another.

"Sure."

They parted only for the short time it took Jaskier to walk around the kitchen island. He led Geralt to the couch, pushing him slightly backwards to make the man sit so he could straddle his lap. Jaskier’s hips were thinner than those of Geralt’s usual partners. His shoulders were larger, his back more muscled, his arms- his whole body was fucking delightful and yet so very different, so very new.

"Jask?"

A kiss.

"Yeah?" It was more of a sigh of pleasure against his lips than a whisper.

"Remember when you asked-" Fuck, it was good. "About my-"

"Sorry, do you need me to stop?"

Something rumbled in Geralt’s chest, his voice almost a growl.

"No."

His hand found the back of Jaskier's neck and they sort of crashed again into each other. They kissed and kissed again and Geralt just didn't want to stop but things had to be said.

"Expertise," he finally managed.

"What?" Jaskier let go of his mouth and came back again for a peck before he sat back on his ankles to look at Geralt. His lips were red, his hair in disarray, his hand still hot on the side of Geralt’s neck. Geralt was fucked.

"Expertise," Geralt said, sitting up a bit straighter, settling his hands on Jaskier’s hips. "The other night. You asked about my area of expertise."

"Uh. Right."

Jaskier had a look on his face like someone had just interrupted his hot make-out session to talk about corporate law. Geralt would know, that had happened to him more times than he would admit.

"This isn't it."

"What?" Jaskier looked bewildered. His face was an open book of unguarded emotions and it made Geralt want to kiss him even more.

"My area of expertise. This isn’t it."

"Oh." Jaskier answered, distracted by a strand of hair that fell over Geralt's eyes. He plucked the strand up between deft fingers and tucked it behind Geralt’s ear. Then he blinked and backtracked. "Wait, kissing?"

"Men," Geralt said. "Men aren't my areas of expertise."

"Oh,” Jaskier said. His hand was suspended in the air behind Geralt’s ear. “Okay, you- Oh. Okay.” he whispered again, his hand dropping down to Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt wasn't sure why Jaskier was the one blushing.

Sexual orientation had never really been a topic of conversation for Geralt growing up. Emotions were already a complex enough subject to tackle, anything that went further than caring for his brothers was not recommended. Exploration was limited. As a young man, he had gone for what society told him were the easiest ways to get sexual release when he needed it (women) and then his life tangled with Yen's and other partners faded out from the realm of his interests. When Ciri had entered their life, his very own life had taken a whole new meaning. There was little that mattered except making his daughter happy. His own personal relationships were more of an afterthought.

"Well," Jaskier started again. "We don't have to- I mean it's okay. It's good. It's all good, darling. Do you- Do you need a breather? Do you- do you even want to be here?"

"I followed you willingly, didn't I?" Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow. Jaskier chuckled.

“It’s just- What if I mess up and deter you from ever enjoying another penis ever again?" he exaggerated, the dramatic flair evident in every line of his body. Geralt snorted.

"Hey! I have a duty to the penis community and I take it very seriously," Jaskier continued as if Geralt hadn’t brushed the thought off.

"The penis community," Geralt repeated, fake awe dripping in his voice.

"The penis kingdom, actually."

"The penis continent." Geraly offered, helpfully.

"Oh, that reminds me, talking about dicks: Nilfgaard, yay or nay?"

"Argh, shut up," he grabbed Jaskier's face unceremoniously and Jaskier laughed in the kiss. His hand brushed Geralt’s cheek and everything about him seemed to slow down. Jaskier broke apart from him, a smile still on his lips, and looked at Geralt steadily like any doubt and hesitation were forgotten.

"Just tell me what you like, darling,” he said.

"I like kissing you.”

"That’s a good start," he replied and granted Geralt’s request.

Jaskier lay his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and the muscles melted under the soft weight of them. He raised onto his knees and pushed Geralt back into the couch. Jaskier was slightly taller kneeling over him, and Geralt found something delightful in having to look up at someone.

Jaskier leaned in and caught Geralt’s lips between his. His kisses were softer, slower, deeper than a minute before. Like he was taking his time to enjoy every second, to make Geralt enjoy every second. One of Geralt’s hands moved from his hip to his lower back, inviting him closer, and Jaskier slid his hands around Geralt’s neck, arching slightly into the touch. There was an intimacy about it that Geralt hadn’t expected nor experienced in a long time.

Jaskier pressed his forehead against his at every breath, his hands caressing Geralt’s cheeks, sliding into Geralt’s hair, slowly making him shiver.

Jaskier’s arms were distracting. The shirt he’d been wearing on that evening at the bar hadn't given away any clue as to the gems that were hidden underneath those sleeves. There was something feral lying deep in Geralt’s belly that was definitely ready to be manhandled.

Geralt found himself sliding his hand under Jaskier’s shirt, feeling the hot skin under his fingers, tracing the muscles along his spine.

Jaskier quickly got the message and took his shirt off between breathless kisses. He started tugging at the buttons of Geralt's shirt while Geralt’s hands made themselves at home on every inch of skin they could find. He felt goosebumps form on Jaskier’s skin and used the distraction to start laying kisses on his neck, licking and sucking the skin and taking note of the softest noises Jaskier made. The tip of his fingers slid down the hairs of Jaskier’s chest as he nibbled the man’s collarbone, and found one of his nipples on the way. Geralt caressed it tentatively and felt the shiver that went through Jaskier’s whole body when he did. Jaskier’s fingers pulled abruptly at his shirt.

“Oh god, take your goddamn shirt off, please!” The request was more of a thready gasp than an actual sentence. Geralt laughed at his enthusiasm and finished unbuttoning his shirt.

“Is this okay?” Jaskier asked as he slid the shirt off Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt hummed approvingly and raised his arms when Jaskier grabbed his undershirt. They kept kissing until he felt Jaskier’s hands slowing down, tensing slightly against his chest until they were barely just touching him. He saw the look on Jaskier’s face when he parted from him and realised why he had stopped. Jaskier’s eyes were fixated on his torso, fingers hovering over one of his many scars.

“I can put the shirt back on if you want,” he offered and Jaskier’s eyes jumped back to his face.

“What? No, darling, no,” he rushed and grabbed Geralt’s face kindly, kissing him again. “I was just surprised. Is this okay? Can I- can I touch you?”

“Yeah. Of course you can,” he kissed Jaskier softly. “They haven’t hurt in a long time.”

“Can I ask- I know this isn’t the best of times but-" he bit his lip with hesitation. "Did someone do this to you?”

“Not one person in particular,” Geralt shrugged it off.

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s brow furrowed.

“Don’t worry about it,” he brushed his nose against Jaskier’s. “It’s in the past.”

"Okay," Jaskier whispered and then, trying to lighten the mood he added, "was it, like, your secret service past?"

"I am not at liberty to say."

Jaskier snorted.

“Just tell me you’re not in a fight club.”

“In a what?” Geralt asked, frowning.

“A fight club.”

“I don’t know what that is,” he said, seemingly clueless.

“You know, a fi- oh, you ass!” Jaskier yelped, slapping him lightly on the pec and Geralt laughed, grabbing the back of Jaskier's thighs right below his bottom to make him slip even further into his lap.

“How would you like to take care of my ass?”

Jaskier almost choked on his own breath and turned an even deeper shade of red.

"Are you- do you mean literally?"

"I'm not a blushing virgin, Jaskier,” Geralt said matter-of-factly.

"I know, I just mean- well if you've never- I mean are you sure you want to? With me?"

It was a sensible question but Geralt didn't want to think about it for too long. Thinking would mean trying to make sense of things -feelings, desires. It would lead to labelling and wanting to belong and- he just hated words. Words had a tendency to make things real and unmovable. Actions were so, so much better.

"You're the one who knows what he's doing, here,” Geralt said. “I'd rather it be you doing the work."

"Uh," Jaskier said thoughtfully. He probably had a PhD in literature or something based on the improbable number of books and manuscripts lying around in his flat. Geralt had even seen a couple ones in the cereal cupboard which was apparently where Jaskier’s glasses went.

"Alright then. Just. Tell me if something is not working for you, alright?"

"I will. Now can we get back to business?"

"To defeat-"

"If you start singing right now I am getting out of here," he grabbed a handful of the musician’s ass.

"Oi!!" Jaskier complained in the fakest way possible. "Wait, hold on, does that mean you've seen Disney movies- what's your favourite one?"

Geralt raised yet another very serious eyebrow.

"Do you often discuss topics that make people think about their kids when they're trying to bed you-"

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry," Jaskier laughed and hid his face in Geralt's neck, full of shame. "How much do you hate me right now?" he muffled.

"Hmm," Geralt pondered, slowly sliding his fingers up Jaskier's spine. "You should probably find a way to make me forget about it."

"Hmm," Jaskier imitated, kissing the side of Geralt's neck and slowly making his way up to the man’s ear. "What if I took your pants off?" he whispered.

"Could be a start," Geralt admitted.

"What if we moved to my bed?"

"I was beginning to wonder if you had one of those."

"I can still fuck you over the kitchen counter if you're disappointed."

Geralt’s pupils dilated as he pictured himself bent over the piece of furniture, holding onto whatever he could while Jaskier pounded him restlessly.

"Bed. Now."

Geralt only got a quick look at the room (more books, more notebooks, cord instruments of all sorts and sizes) before Jaskier grabbed him by the belt and pushed him onto the bed. He followed quickly, straddling him and kissing him senseless until Geralt’s head hit the mattress.

"Can I t-" Jaskier started and Geralt tried to sit up, cutting him off with a kiss. He reached for his own belt, planning on taking his trousers off before Jaskier pressed against his shoulders and made him lie down again. He slid his fingers between Geralt’s, caressing his knuckles softly.

"Oh please, give me the honor."

Geralt almost growled with impatience and reached a hand out between Jaskier's legs, palming him through his jeans.

"Oh sweet Edith Eleanor Diana Poulton, you are not playing."

He got Geralt’s belt out of the way and undid his trousers. Geralt’s underwear followed halfway when Jaskier took the trousers off, leaving his ass bare on the sheets and the hem of his briefs so low on his hips it was practically at the base of his cock. He tried taking his briefs off entirely, feeling silly and oddly vulnerable being halfway undressed but Jaskier batted his hands off and kissed him again. He slid a hand through Geralt’s pubic hair and slowly, incredibly slowly, down, and after what felt like a thousand years, finally closed his hand around Geralt’s cock and pulled.

Geralt pushed the back of his head into the mattress and closed his eyes as if he was at risk of losing sight if he left them open. Jaskier kissed him through the first moan of pleasure and quickly was all over him. Jaskier was kissing and licking and touching and stroking and Geralt was having quite a hard time trying to do much more than let his hand grab onto Jaskier’s hair and do his best not to sound too desperate. He was absolutely failing.

“Is this good, darling?” Jaskier whispered, kissing his neck up to his jaw and softly biting the skin there as his hand kept stroking him.

"Hmm," was all Geralt could manage and he felt Jaskier smile against his skin.

"Tell me?"

"Ah,” Geralt’s hands were moving somewhat erratically, trying to hold onto any part of Jaskier that would make him feel anchored and not as if he was going to lose his mind before he got the man’s socks off. “Yes."

"You're so good darling,” Jaskier’s kindness, Geralt vaguely decided, was fucking obscene. “You're doing so good."

Geralt felt himself blush, having no idea how any blood could flow to his face since he was pretty sure all of it was rushing to his dick. He wasn't going to last long at this rate.

"I want- I want to touch you too."

Jaskier let him open his jeans and moaned into his mouth when Geralt finally got his hand into his underwear.

“Jaskier,” he warned and Jaskier slowed down the working of his own hands.

“You alright, love?” he whispered, voice broken with pleasure.

Instead of an answer, Geralt sat up and pulled Jaskier's trousers to get his point across. Jaskier took his hands off him - the loss was fucking unbearable - to finally get rid of all remaining items of clothing and pressed himself against Geralt again, his hand on his neck. Geralt immediately got his arms around his middle to cradle him closer. Jaskier rocked slightly against him, their cocks pressing against each other and Geralt couldn't help but get a hand on both of them.

"Show me?" he croaked hoarsely and silently prayed that Jaskier wouldn’t make him beg for it because he definitely would. Instead Jaskier joined their hands together and guided him, pressing on Geralt's fingers to make him hold his cock tighter, moaning when Geralt's wrist angled exactly how he liked it.

"Oh god, yes. You're so good to me, love," he moaned.

It felt like forever and it felt like a blink. They rocked and they kissed and they moaned and Jaskier kept breathing sweet nonsense into his neck, praises into his ear, about how good he was and how good he felt and how well Jaskier would take care of him and how much he wanted to make him moan through the night but in the end, what got him over the edge was Jaskier digging his fingers onto the soft flesh of his ass, sliding in to brush against Geralt’s hole, and absolutely, definitely had nothing to do with Jaskier crying out, “Oh love, you’re beautiful!”

Geralt lost a few seconds or maybe a minute or five over which Jaskier had apparently come all over his stomach too. Jaskier was catching his breath, lying with his forehead against Geralt’s chest, trying his best not to lay all his weight over him. Geralt found the back of Jaskier’s neck, his fingers going up through his hair and drawing a comfortable groan from him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, pushing on his arm to lie a few centimeters away, his head propped over Geralt’s shoulder, their legs still intertwined together. Jaskier’s arm stretched over Geralt’s middle and the tingly waves of left-over pleasure washed over them both with every breath, content tiredness slowly taking over.

A few minutes later Geralt extracted himself from Jaskier’s grasp, not without some difficulty, and convinced himself to clean up. Washing his hands in front of the bathroom mirror, Geralt looked back at Jaskier’s face hovering over his shoulder as Jaskier pressed his chest against his back. Eyes closed, Jaskier asked: “D’you want to stay?”

Vaguely wondering about the last time he felt as comfortable as this with someone and then pushing the thought away, Geralt’s eyes lowered, looking at Jaskier’s arms settled around his body.

He felt Jaskier’s lips move into a loopy smile against his skin when he answered:

“Hmm.”

#geraskier #geraskier fic #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #my writing #no warnings #geralt of rivia is a little dense and jaskier is very very pretty #mine: geraskier #mine: no warning #mine: himbo geralt #mine: modern au #mine: mature #mine: of fingers tongues and toes series

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mattzerella-sticks · 3 years

Text

Not Here for Me

If he had the choice, Dean never would have stepped foot inside this place. But Sam was curious - and curious is a hell of a lot better than the depression that clung to him day after day since Jess left him. So Dean swallows his pride, joins Sam as his babysitter. So he won't get find himself in any trouble. Trouble, however, is more likely to find Dean. In the bowels of his personal hell, can Dean resist temptations that have plagued him his entire life? Or will someone descend and lend a hand, showing Dean that the darkness he imagined only lived inside his own mind. And all that he feared was not as he seemed if he let himself step out of the shadows of his past.

(Dean/Cas, Human AU, 2000s-set, 8,113 words, tw: Dean’s childhood & upbringing by one John Winchester)

ao3

His ears hurt. Dean stares at a small puddle of maybe-water-maybe-vodka that collected on the bar top, focusing on it instead of the pounding bass drum and blender whirring that’s somehow considered music. At least that’s what Sam told him seconds after entering, meeting Dean’s disgruntlement with patented exasperation. Floppy bangs pushed back for its full effect. “You’re such an old man,” he said, “Can you pretend you’re happy being here?”

“That depends,” he fired back, brow raised. Pulled taut like a bowstring, retort knocked and waiting. He lets it fly, “How quick do you think I can get drunk?”

The answer – very quickly. Dean balked when Sam ordered them these bubbling potions the color of lava lamps mixed with Barbie vomit. Served in dainty glasses Dean could easily break if he applied even a fraction of pressure between his thumb and forefinger. Rim lined with salt and a wedge of lime. Sam suggested they cheers. He chugged his before Sam raised the glass. He flagged the bartender, ignoring Sam’s glare. “What the hell did I drink?” he asked.

The bartender pursed his lips, eyes dragging over Dean’s frame as if he were stripping him bare in the room; peeling away the layers of his jacket and plaid button-down and faded band tee like they were tissue, freckled-and-pale skin freed for the bartender’s enjoyment. He sowed seeds of unwanted fantasies. Dean cleared his throat, repeating the question, digging out those dropped seedlings before the bartender’s imagined wanderings might flower.

If Dean wanted to encourage attention, he’d have dressed like him. Mesh shirt with uneven holes, some stretched wider than most. Its woven fabric failed at hiding the sweat that dampened his obviously spray-tanned skin, strips of orange paint peeling like a rind. The bartender wiped his brow, a streak of bright white skin revealed. “A strawberry margarita.”

“Of course,” Dean nodded at the selection behind him, “got anything that doesn’t taste too… sugary?” A frown dragged every wrinkle and crease forward on the bartender’s face. He clarified, “A beer. What beer do you have?”

They didn’t have any. Dean asked for a vodka neat, Sam criticizing his choice as the bartender retreated. “You’re so boring.” That was three vodka neats ago.

Sam left his station beside Dean soon after his first drink, swept away in the tide of bodies pulsing in the center of the club. Each individual moving to a different beat. Their dancing unsyncopated and wild. Yet, despite how hopeless it looked, bodies acting independently from one another, the writhing mass shared one mind. Although, even assimilated by the crowd, Dean can keep track of his little brother. Head poking free of the mass like some odd periscope. Scanning every few seconds until their gazes met and then submerging once more.

Dean isn’t searching for him now. He studies his small puddle of definitely-vodka. He swiped his finger through it earlier and sucked it dry; cheeks hollow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Dean heard someone’s glass shatter over the wretched din of noise, timed perfectly with his finger popping out of his mouth like a burst bubble. The sharp smell of alcohol fries his nose hairs. It dulls the throbbing ache caused by his surroundings, Dean’s frayed nerves sparking underneath, jumping like live wires since Sam detailed their plans for this evening.

“You wanna go to a gay bar?”

Sam rolled his eyes with so much force they rattled inside his skull like a novelty magic eight-ball, his hazel gaze landing on him, answer written neatly, ‘It is decidedly so’. Dean shook it again, scoffing. The answer changed. Not in Dean’s favor. ‘Yes – definitely’.

“Why?” Dean leaned across their small table, “Are you…?” He asks with a wry twist of his lips and a limp wrist.

“I don’t know,” Sam told him.

“You don’t know? Isn’t that a requirement for a – a gay bar?”

“Not necessarily,” he explained, sitting across from Dean finally. Sam’s windbreaker swooshed with every dramatic sweep of his arm. “I mean… sure, most of the people there are gay. But it’s not like they make you flash some official gay card at the door…” Expression pinched, he powered head, avoiding the conversational detour and sticking to the main highway of his argument. “Besides, there’s more than just gay.”

Dean nodded, “Like what?”

“Bisexual, Pansexual… Asexual, Demisexual –“

“I think I might be that,” Dean laughed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “It means you’re attracted to Demi Moore, right? Because if Kutcher weren’t in the picture, I’d definitely be all up in her business!”

“Don’t be an ass, Dean,” Sam said, “Demisexuality is a real thing, okay? It’s only being attracted to people who you have a deep, intimate bond with.”

“Oh, is that so?” He stretched his legs out from beneath the table, knocking into Sam’s. “That what you’re learning in college? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. Or were you a bit presumptuous when you made that e-mail, lawboy?”

“I still do,” Sam muttered, cheeks tinted a dark shade. “I… it was one of these classes I have to take, for my degree. Made me think about things I never knew about and – and stuff I said that, looking back, was… kind of offensive. That we joked about, what dad would say, sometimes…” Dean tuned Sam out partly, a refreshing static separating him from Sam’s words. Standard whenever Sam mentioned their dad, or if he saw something that reminded him of dad, or if dad cared enough to leave a voicemail for Sam on their shared answering machine. The little antenna on his brain’s radio drooped slightly, making Dean fiddle for the signal. He managed to catch the remainder of Sam’s monologue, barely. “…it’s a whole new world!”

“No, it isn’t,” Dean sighed, tiredly scrubbing his chin. “Sam, you’ve only ever liked girls.”

“To my knowledge!” Sam insisted, “I might’ve liked a boy, possibly. Maybe. I mean… do you remember Trevor?”

“Trevor?”

“Y’know, Trevor,” he fumbled through his memories, silence painstakingly ticking past. The clicking of their kitchen clock suddenly, obnoxiously loud. “That kid from that town we stayed at for about two months my sophomore year of high school, up in Montana.”

Dean remembered that town. GED burning a hole in his pocket, he bummed through town hunting for a job since dad hightailed it for a phantom thread of a lead on their mother’s murderer. Not many folks were hiring, but a stern man in a rough-hewn Stetson and bushy mustache needed an extra ranch hand. Introduced Dean to his son, Dean’s new co-worker. Steve was a nice boy, older than him by a few years, with a warm temperament, skin tanned like leather from a life of fieldwork, and legs bent further than Dean’s by riding horses since birth.

One day while tending the horses, Steve noticed how Dean’s focus drifted every few seconds, drawn to the saddles. “We can go for a ride,” he mentioned, “one night, around the property.”

“I wouldn’t even know how to get on a horse, let alone ride it.”

Steve chuckled, shoulders barely shaking from the act. His honeyed eyes were earnest and gooey in the filtered sunlight, distracting Dean more than saddles ever did. “I can show you,” he said, “it ain’t too hard.” He proved that by using their lunch break to teach Dean how to mount a horse. He demonstrated it, legs wrapping around its thick flanks, showboating and urging the steed forward by tapping his heels while Dean laughed, head dizzy from spinning, following Steve and the horse, as well as other things. “Think you can try it?” Dean didn’t. He shook his head, lip trapped between his teeth. Speaking felt blasphemous in that moment. “What if I helped?” Steve offered a hand, easily hefting Dean up atop the horse. They shared the saddle, Dean bracketed by Steve’s sturdy arms and supported by his firm chest. Dean felt every tug of the reigns as Steve guided the horse around the stable, and every whispered breath along his neck. Steve dismounted first, holding Dean’s hips and helping him down later. “Now imagine how nice that’d be, out on the plains, with nothing but the moon watching us?” He painted a pretty picture, even if Dean’s copied brushstrokes were shaky and inelegant. They made plans the following Friday.

John returned Tuesday, and they left Wednesday. He’d never been near a horse since.

But they weren’t talking about Steve. Why did he think of Steve? “Trevor?” Dean repeated, still unsure what Sam’s flailing meant.

“My lab partner,” he said, “We bonded over our mutual appreciation of Vince Vincente and the Goonies… there were some days he’d give me the extra sandwich his mom packed, for some reason?”

“You mean to tell me you had a crush on this Trevor kid?”

“I might have!” Sam rose, shouting, “He was… he treated me well, and I liked hanging around him.”

“He was your friend, Sam. Friend,” Dean sunk deeper into his seat, kicking Sam’s abandoned chair. “You have had friends in your life, right? I know I joke about you being a loser, but I never really meant it…”

“Of course I had friends,” he scowled, “I have friends.”

“And you’ve had girlfriends,” Dean reminded him, “Hell, you and Jess only broke up about a month ago! Did Trevor give you feelings like Jess did?”

Sam visibly faltered, stooping slightly. Footing lost as the ground trembled beneath his feet. “Well… no, I mean – not, not that I can recall…” Spluttering, his hands balled tighter into fists. “But maybe it’s different, feelings for a boy and – and feelings for a girl.”

“Sam, feelings are feelings regardless of who’s on the other end of ‘em. You just… you just know –“

Like he regressed two decades, Sam stomped his foot in a very childish way. Whining, “God, Dean, can’t you be a little supportive!” Immediately his face stretched in regret, rubber band snapping as he leaped forward in years to his appropriate age. It didn’t matter; the barb struck exactly where it intended, puncturing soft underbelly, unguarded by Dean’s calloused defenses.

Dean stiffened; gaze drawn to a whorl in the table’s finish. His thumb pressed hard at its center. He snorted, but it sounded more like an engine backfiring. “Supportive huh?” he asked, smile wide and wry, “You want me to be more supportive?” Thousands of examples flickered like a clip reel in his mind. Small things. Dean skipping breakfast so Sam can eat the last of their cereal. Wearing the same clothes, weeks on end, because Sam needed a new wardrobe, reedy body bigger than what they had. Risking arrest with every five-finger discount or hustled game or back alley trick; supporting the way their dad couldn’t.

Bigger things. Lying, letting Sam play over at other kids’ houses; Dean frozen, watching the door in fear their dad came home early. Hiding letters from admissions for Sam, secreted from beneath their dad’s nose. He was an ever-present figure during those last few years. A shadowy patrol that continually followed since they were old enough. Dad had more use for men then children. Dean went as far as distracting him one starless night while Sam escaped, then accepted the consequences of his actions. He joined Sam weeks later with Baby’s keys and a split lip caused by, who he described to Sam as, some jackass biker. It healed in time for an interview, for a job he still has. Six days a week spent under the hoods of cars, working long hours and earning money to support them both, like before. Giving Sam the very freedoms he’d been denied – time, luxury, and safety.

He held these words firm in his mouth, smoke bitter as it roiled. But, in his next breath, Dean released the past with a low hiss. Darkness rising, dissipating. “It’s okay,” he assured Sam, cutting off his rambling apologies. “Really.” He glanced at Sam’s outfit, fully taking in his choices. A color-blocked jacket of bright colors, reds, yellows, and oranges, that glowed over his tight, dark button-down. A hint of some printed graphic peeking behind the half-zippered flaps. Combined with a pair of Sam’s most distressed denim and flip-flops because It’s California, Dean, and you know how awful my feet sweat. As a whole Sam presented like a grade-A douchebag. Entirely unprepared for any bar, let alone a gay one. Dean’s instincts kicked into overdrive.

“Fine,” he decided, standing, too, “you want supportive? Then I’m coming with you.”

“What?” Sam trailed Dean’s wake as he left for his bedroom, cornering him while he slipped into some ratty white sneakers left by his dresser. “You’re coming?”

“Sure.”

“But… why?” Sam slammed his hand on Dean’s doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re not gay.”

Dean frowned at him, “I thought you didn’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar?”

“Yeah, but –“ He knocked Sam’s arm loose, passing his brother on the way towards the door. Sam followed, buzzing behind like a mosquito. “You don’t seriously wanna go, do you?”

“Obviously not,” Dean said, sliding into an oversized leather jacket. Another relic of their dad’s. Dean couldn’t leave without it. He couldn’t explain why. “But since you’re insisting on doing this, I might as well make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”

“That won’t happen.”

“You kidding? A guy like you, wobbling around like a fawn – a sort of gay Bambi… you’d get eaten alive instantly. Or drugged.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, the finger of his other hand pressed into his brother’s chest like it was an intercom button, pushing so forcefully Dean thought it might burst through the other side. “I don’t need the stress of finding out you died at this gay bar because some idiot overestimated the amount of roofies they’d need to take down your elephant-sized ass.”

Sam cringed at his worst-case scenario but hadn’t shrugged his hand off. Instead he returned the gesture with his own comforting touch around Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” Sam said, “you can come. Don’t embarrass me though, by being an ass.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Hey,” Sam said later, Baby idling in front of a red light. Zeppelin blaring through her speakers, making conversation difficult. Dean lowered it for his brother. “What’d you think dad’d say, if he knew where we were going?”

Dad’s opinion, of his two sons wasting their night in a gay bar, would ruffle the feathers of Sam’s newfound sensitivity. He hears their dad’s voice clearly, delivering a tirade about their terrible choices. Dean spent his time at the bar drowning that voice since arriving. He drains his fourth-or-fifth glass of its contents. It all splashes like the others, into his empty, churning stomach. Dad’s voice, the awful music, his nerves and senses slip out of mind. He sees dregs of vodka left in his glass. He uses the same finger that swiped through the tiny bar puddle and swirls it there, coating in in more vodka. Again, Dean sucks on his finger.

Someone approaches while his lips graze knuckle.

“If you get tired of that finger…” a stranger says on his right, reeking of cherry-and-liquored stink. Dean’s face scrunches at the smell. “I’ve got this big thing you can suck on…” His gaze wanders to where the stranger is.

He’s a man with severely gelled hair, plastered back. A few strands were missed in the initial sweep and clung to his forehead, shiny and wet, making it seem like oil slowly bled down. He chokes on a gold chain that resembles a collar, broad neck seizing as he breathes. Steroids, Dean wagers, given how bulging veins snake past the sleeves of his stretched-thin shirt. Which makes him doubt the man’s ‘big’ claim. He arches a stupidly perfect, sculpted brow, leaning far past the bubble of Dean’s personal space. “You’d definitely have a lot more fun than playing with your finger,” he adds, taking Dean’s silence as an apparent invitation.

He can’t remember when his finger slid free, but it did and, while spit-slick, jabs at Roidy’s brick-wall chest. “Not interested pal,” he says, “Why don’t you try a different fella?”

“What if I don’t want a different fella?”

“Then you are s’stupid as you look.” Dean waves, flagging the bartender for his next vodka. “Why don’t you take your big package crap elsewhere?”

Undeterred, Roidy leans closer. Fingertips ghosting where Dean holds his glass as the bartender refills it. He tenses, squirming, imagining the very oil that drips from the man’s head coats his fingers, too, and through his touch smears it around Dean’s wrist. “Listen, you might not know this… but I made a promise tonight. That I would fuck the hottest, sexiest piece of trade in the club tonight. And congratulations… that’s you.”

Dean squints, mockingly cooing at the other’s assessment. “I feel honored,” he says, sarcasm heavy like the hand pouring his drinks this evening. “Special, even,” Dean continues, “don’t know how anyone could turn y’away after that.”

“No one does.”

“Then I guess I’ll be the first?” Dean asks. The bartender huffs softly under breath, he and Dean reveling silently. They connect over this interloper’s antics. With a subtle shift in the bartender’s gaze, a snide flash of teeth, Dean understands. He’s not the first, only the latest. Certainly not the last.

What he wants to be, though, is left alone. That doesn’t seem likely. Not with how Roidy gloms onto Dean’s side, an arm curling around his shoulders. Not if his biting smile meant anything, tearing through Dean’s dismissals. Not as Roidy whispers, barely audible because of the music, “If you’re going for discreet, I can do that… play along, that is. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy…”

Dean’s mood sinks under such nauseating charms. He looks for assistance in the bartender, but he swam to safer shores at some point, serving drinks elsewhere. Unfortunate. He was starting to like him.

Roidy snuffles Dean’s neck, alarms clanging within his head. Or possibly it’s coming from the many speakers placed throughout the bar. Either way that plus everything he drank, make thinking complicated and tortuously slow, like Roidy nosing along his collarbone. His thoughts fall apart before they make it to his mouth, Dean opening and shutting and opening his mouth hoping a few words can crawl themselves into existence. He manages a few garbled syllables that are greatly ignored.

As swiftly as Roidy began his assault, he’s being tugged off him. Dean gasps for breath, spinning, facing the dancefloor now. Glaring at Roidy who glares elsewhere, at the owner of the hand that cleaved this growth from Dean’s side.

It’s beautiful, for a hand. Tan, palm curled around Dean’s shoulder protectively. No cuts or scabs across the knuckles, nor any scars. If he were to touch it, he imagines the skin there is soft and smooth. Dean’s gaze travels, curious who might own such a gentle hand.

Chasing the sinewy lines of his savior’s arms to broad shoulders, Dean feels his chest tighten in a desperate need for fresh air. However, it’s not terrifying like before with Roidy. This is unique and comforting. He inhales, then exhales. He has no trouble breathing. He still feels that tightness. Crushing once he finds his savior’s face.

Marble. Statues are carved from stone – marble, specifically – he remembers from an old teacher’s droned lecture that returned with vengeance. Spoken during a field trip to some museum where Dean barely stayed awake as they flew room to room, always seconds from collapsing, waking momentarily for the next exhibit. Except when they entered a room of statues, and Dean managed fifteen minutes of attentiveness. Aided by chiseled features of a statue hidden between two columns near the farthest corner of the room. A man, naked, endowed, frozen in repose and staring into the distance. It might have been at a bathroom door, Dean’s memory supplied, but the statue saw beyond such borders. Dean wished he knew what existed where only statues can see. All he understood was the expression. Marble evoked steel. The statue displayed determination, tempered and ready for whatever barrels forward, with a hint of sorrow he must greet what is to come. The same expression shone on his savior’s face triggering his sudden recollection. Only his was brighter because of those eyes. An incomparable blue.

On first glance, Dean wonders if that statue perhaps came alive. Journeyed from wherever it stood, in that town whose name he can’t summon up, to save him. Except that’s impossible. That statue is most likely there, forever guarding the bathroom. Blue Eyes is a man with his own history, parallel to Dean’s until he jumped in playing hero. But why?

He can’t think of a reasonable explanation, because Blue Eyes finally speaks. “Hey babe,” he growls, Dean jolting from the pitch, like he stepped, shoeless, on glass shards littering the floor. An abundance of them must slip loose from Blue Eyes’ mouth whenever it opens after they shredded his vocal cords. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”

What?

“What?”

“Didn’t you get my text?” he asks Dean. Then, subtly checking on Roidy who watches, fuming from the sidelines, he makes an odd clicking sound. “Or were your hands full, and you couldn’t check?”

“His hands were full all right,” Roidy interrupts, not waiting for Dean’s response. He tries shoving Blue Eyes back, but he refuses to budge. His strength real and not decorative like Roidy’s. He falters slightly; adjusts course and snags a fistful of Blue Eyes’ white button-down in case Blue Eyes wastes energy trying what Roidy did. “Why don’t you leave and let your babe hang with someone who’s there when he needs him?”

Blue Eyes squints, lips slowly stretching, like a match dragged across a striker, until the flame of a smirk dances into view. “I can assure you, that’s exactly who I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He does. He should. Blue Eyes listens for Dean’s answer, chin dipped patiently. Roidy’s is, as well. Both wait on him, Dean the difference between favor and disgrace. It’s a non-decision. He eases into his savior’s warmth, improvising by slipping his thumb through a belt loop on the other side. “Exactly,” Dean says, “you’re all I need, sweetie.”

Dean knows there’s no reason to turn from Blue Eyes. Temptation wins, and he chances a peek at the loser. Roidy fumes, his sneer somehow making him appear uglier. He wipes at his brow, disrupting those few, sticky strands, and reveals covered pockmarks. They appear horn-like, in the bar’s dim lighting. That cherry-and-liquor scent sours, suddenly pungent like rotten eggs. “Whatever,” he mutters, letting Blue Eyes go, “your boyfriend’s a fucking tease.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean drawls, laughing, squeezing Blue Eyes tighter. Encouraged by his presence. “At least you’ll know it’s consen-u-tal!”

Roidy departs dreadfully, saluting them with his middle finger. Dean responds with a raised glass that quickly empties itself down his throat. Slumping onto the bar, releasing Blue Eyes, Dean motions for the bartender’s return. “Hey,” he slurs, “another vodk-eh and, uh…” He scowls, studying the rack, an array of alcohol lined up. “Shit, man,” he asks his savior, “what’s your poison?”

“Tequila,” Blue Eyes tells the bartender, frowning at Dean, “You sure you’re good for this?”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“That you look like you’ve had enough.” Blue Eyes accepts the glass of tequila, tapping its rim against his chin, lime wedge hitting the corner of his quirked lips. “How many of those vodkas have you had?”

“’Bout this many,” he answers, hand open. Dean hums, considering the number. “Maybe one or two more. Or less? I must’ve lost count…” He shrugs, sipping at his latest drink. “S’okay, though, I once drank this meathead trucker under the table. A whole bottle of ol’ Jack at this… roadhouse off a highway somewhere east a’here.” Vodka sloshes with each gesture while he retells the story. “So I’ve got tolernance.”

“Clearly.” Blue Eyes chuckles, and Dean – not sure for what reason – joins him. He can’t hear much of it, but the bits of his laughter that break over the bar’s chaotic din make Dean giddy. “Thank you,” he nods at his tequila, “for the drink.”

“Hey, I’m the one thankin’ here buddy,” Dean says, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t stepp-epped in when you did. Probably somethin’ punchy.”

“He would have deserved it,” he finally tips his glass back. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in rhythm with Blue Eyes’, even if his drink rests miles away on the bar top. “Hey,” Blue Eyes continues, smiling, fiddling with the lime wedge, “what’s your name?”

“Why you wanna know?”

“Well, usually I know the names of the men who buy me drinks. Especially those who buy them for me after I’ve scared off pervy creeps.”

“You make a habit of this, then?”

“No,” Blue Eyes says, “you’re the first.”

Unlike with Roidy, Dean believes him. “Dean.”

“Castiel,” he reveals, simultaneously sticking the lime in his mouth. Teeth locked around it, he drains the wedge of its juice. Dean blushes, and the rush of blood to his head brings dizziness. Resting one hand on the bar doesn’t help. Neither does two. Castiel finishes his drink, placing the glass and shriveled lime near Dean’s hands, and yet his sudden lightheadedness persists.

Castiel must notice this queasiness, because he grazes Dean’s elbow. Uses words Dean cannot presently grasp. A wave of concern sweeps across Castiel’s features, transforming them. Drawing Dean closer, lost in his orbit.

A diversion is necessary. “So, Cas,” he starts, their faces inches from each other. To talk easier. “You gay?”

“Uh…” Belatedly, Dean realizes his stupidity. His jaw drops, as if he can vacuum the question back. Pretend he never said it. Castiel, looking saintly under the bar’s neon glow, recovers faster. Replies before Dean might withdraw. “Yeah, yes I’m… I’m gay. Be pretty weird if I wasn’t.”

“I must be pretty weird, huh,” Dean thinks aloud. He smacks his lips. They taste oddly like a morning where, after playing some hilarious prank on Sam, he came to with old socks stuffed into his duct taped mouth.

Castiel skews his head to the side. “Why are you weird?”

“Because…” It’s a bad idea. He recognizes how bad an idea this is. However, recognition and action are completely separate. And while he succeeds in the former, he fails spectacularly with the latter. “I’m not gay.” Then, slurring, he whisper-shouts, “I’m straaaaight.”

“Really…” Castiel skims through tens of emotions Dean cannot discern with his vodka-addled brain. He settles on detachment, the tightness within his chest loosening as Cas inches backwards. Dean, instinctively, floats closer. That strain returns tenfold, like a python coiled itself around Dean. Squeezes him until Castiel bumps into a patron, bringing their chests flush together. Dean likes it even if he cannot breathe. Castiel smiles, but it’s noticeably different than those previously gifted. “If you’re straight, why are you at a gay bar?”

“You don’t have to be gay to be in a gay bar,” Dean supplies.

“It’d be a real plus though.” He barely caught Castiel’s mumbling. He can’t question what was meant, because Castiel clears his throat and repeats his question. “Why did you choose a gay bar for the evening?”

Dean glances at the dance floor. Sam hadn’t left, enmeshed between writhing bodies. “I’m not here for me. My brother – he thinks he’s gay… or somethin’ like it,” he tells Castiel, snorting when someone other than Sam rakes a paw through his hair. Awkwardness flashes like lightning, disappearing behind forced puppy-dog features and Sam’s too-wide grin. “He’s here expermimenting while I’m the… uh – the moral support.”

Castiel’s face publicizes his thoughts. The lines of his face twitch in simple patterns that are already familiar to Dean. And the pools of his eyes reflect the subdued variety of his feelings, providing needed transparency. With this change of his features, Dean guesses Castiel’s tensed mouthline and wishbone-bent eyebrows meant awe and respect. “That’s… very nice of you.”

“Least I can do,” Dean shrugs, tasting sock once more, “it’s not like I’ll need’ta do more. Kid’s straight as a… straight thing.”

Those pearled emotions seal themselves tightly in a clamshell, Castiel sending them back into murky depths. “How would you know?”

“Because I’ve known the kid all m’life, Cas. He’s a shit liar… at least to me he is.” Dean settles against the bar, past resurfacing. A clear memory from their younger years. Sam never finishing his dinners, but somehow dropping a clean plate into the trashcan every time. Followed by a question, like clockwork, about taking a walk. “Around the motel,” he said, “nothing further.” His father’s rules. Never plainly set, but strictly enforced. Dean learned of them the hard way. Sam agreed, not even fighting like he usually did. Maybe that’s why, one night, he left their motel a beat after Sam. Dean kept close tabs on his brother. Not stopping him as he disobeyed orders and crossed the street, nor when a crowd of adults poured out of some ritzy venue, stares scathing as he passed. He maintained distance, only toeing nearer as Sam slowed for a better view of the alleyway he paused at, of a three-legged dog hobbling out of a cardboard box, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Sam greeted him in similar fashion, kneeling at the edge where light and shadows gathered. He pet and pet and pet this stray, stopping only to reveal the portion of dinner he hadn’t eaten wrapped in several paper towels. Dean scurried off in the direction of the motel, asking Sam how his walk was once he returned. He relates all this to Castiel. “Sam loved dogs. Always wanted one assa pet…” If this was his chance, Dean figured he might help. Became more lenient. Gave Sam food from his plate, not that he ever noticed. Lied to John during those rare moments he was home. “Most of the things he got away with were only because I let him. I’m sure if he ever wanted a boyfriend he could’ve done it, and there I’d be covering his tracks like I did for his dog an’ his playdates an’ his girlfriends.”

“Wow, you…” Castiel trails off. Or perhaps he completed his thought, and Dean missed it because their arms are pressed together on the bar. Dean turns, watching the other’s soft contemplation instead of Sam. Castiel meets his gaze, those pearls reappearing. Shinier, too. “What happened to the dog?”

“Sam dropped off food the next two weeks, but by then our dad was dying to move on,” he explains, “I happened to overhear him bitchin’ on the phone and knew it’d be soon. So I took a personal day and brought his mutt t’the nearest shelter.” Hopefully Patchy found a good home, not that he cared.

“You’re a good brother.”

“I try my best.”

“Your best is better than a lot of people’s…” Castiel knocks his shoulder into Dean’s, Dean chasing after it. “My brothers’ idea of kindness is the occasional birthday e-mail, when the mood strikes them that is.”

“That sucks.” There’s more he wants to say, except Dean cannot make his mouth open again. When he finally unsticks his lips, he forgot all those words that seemed important moments ago. Replaced by off-tempo notes and cyclical phrases. Dean sighs, head lolling to the side while his lids slide closed over his eyes.

He exists in darkness. A warm, welcoming blackness, like being swaddled in a blanket. Hiding under it while winds howled and raged, sheets of rain slamming atop roofs and pelleting windows. Safe, protected.

That blanket is torn from him, Dean stumbling slightly. Castiel catches him and helps him stand upright, smirking. “Hey,” Dean whines, numb fingers twining loosely around Castiel’s wrist, “where you goin’?”

Castiel nods at the writhing mass, somehow larger since Dean last looked. “I feel like dancing.”

“No…” Dean tugs Castiel back towards him. He stays where he was. “Stay here,” Dean insists.

“Or…” Castiel says, prying Dean’s hand from his wrist. His needy fingers seep through the spaces between Castiel’s and he clings tight. “Or,” he repeats, breathier than before, “you can join me on the dancefloor?”

“I don’t dance, Cas…” His legs betray him, following Castiel into the fray. Vodka making his protests toothless. Vodka and Castiel.

He meant what he said, though. He does not dance. Men don’t dance. Real men. Normal men. Dad never danced, not even at his wedding. Even though mom begged, dad would tell them that he remained firm in his decision. “Never trust a man who dances,” he advised, Sam asleep feet from where they sat, beers in their hands. Dean was fourteen. “No man wants to dance. If he’s dancing, it means he’s weak enough to have lost that fight. And if he likes dancing, then that’s not the kind of man you want to be associating with.” Dean nodded, because at fourteen why not? Dad rarely gave guidance that wasn’t pointed, aimed directly at him. Cutting, slicing bits and pieces off and leaving them behind in whatever motel they briefly occupied.

With how Castiel moves, effortless and graceful, Dean bets he likes dancing. And if Castiel likes dancing, Dean wonders, truly, how bad it can be.

You want these people thinking you’re some kind of fairy? They already have, before he walked onto the dance floor. No son of mine is gonna dance with a man! Luckily, he won’t be dancing with one. He’ll dance, surrounded by men. Do you want to look gay, Dean? He won’t. Not if he says he doesn’t. Not if he says he isn’t.

A kid from his junior high days taught him that. How, by telling yourself what you do isn’t gay, suddenly you create your own version of truth. “Not for everything,” he warned. He paused, panting, as he – like Dean – recovered on the leather couch. Spent, video paused on his basement television, shorts – like Dean’s – around his ankles, “it doesn’t work all the time.”

“But for this?” Dean asked.

“Definitely this.”

Dean listened; those sacred words used sparingly over time. Mostly during clouded nights when the money ran out, as did their supplies, and Dean’s skills at the pool table or poker game couldn’t compare to those of his body.

He uses the words again. This isn’t gay. Castiel spins him, his chest plastered onto Dean’s back. He tries phrasing it differently. Dancing isn’t gay. Dean takes his free hand, the one not latched onto Castiel, and mirrors an earlier action he saw. Combs his fingers through Castiel’s dark brown locks. He amends and adds to it, too. Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing in this bar. That appeases the monster clawing at his mind, its voice, eerily similar to his dad’s, fading away. Dean smiles, then lets go.

The music isn’t so bad. Dancing isn’t as bad, either. Castiel is…

Dean focuses only on the music and dancing. It’s easy, losing himself in the rhythm. Forgetting who he is, where he is, and why he is where he is. He becomes nameless, another body in motion. Faceless as the strobe lights flicker and hide his features. Thoughtless, no room for anything besides what he hears. Dean doesn’t exist save for moments that jab at his awareness. Castiel squeezing his hand. The feel of hair then stubble then hair as his touch roams. Gasps at the base of his neck that elicit headier gasps from Dean. Firm press of chest-to-back, joined hands resting over his heart while Castiel’s free hand lays atop Dean’s stomach as they rock together.

Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing at this bar.

While it fascinates Dean, Castiel must tire of their arrangement, because he disturbs Dean’s oblivion by turning from back-to-chest to chest-to-chest. The wrong move, Dean thinks, as his vision blurs in such a violent way. The room spins and tilts long after he did, everything appearing off-balance. Save for Castiel, standing in front of him, not dancing anymore.

That’s why he throws his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean’s mind comforts him with seconds later. For safety. For stability. Since he, too, wasn’t dancing anymore. His legs were useless, bent further than normal. Making him smaller. Forcing him to angle his head upwards to meet his savior’s searching gaze. Lips parted silently, asking a question with the ghost of his breath. Dean thinks he hears an invitation.

He accepts. Dives headfirst into it, vodka mixing with tequila and a spritz of lime. Castiel tastes better than any drink he’s had. He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder, climbing for easier access. Castiel helps; an arm braced around Dean’s waist steadies him. Guides their bodies into a holding pattern, a simple sway that won’t interfere with the others cavorting around them. Serenity made within the chaos of a raging sea; these waves don’t crash. Rather, they tenderly caress the shoreline before retreating in similar fashion. A line of sea foam, like the line of spit generously coating Dean’s mouth, the only proof it even hit.

Dean breaks from their kiss, panting. His forehead rests against Castiel’s. “That was…” he pauses, testing each word he thinks of and ultimately rejecting them all since they fail to describe what happened. He settles for, “Wow.”

“It was,” Castiel agrees, “Why’d you stop, then?”

“I stopped?” Dean sifts through his memories, those last few minutes entirely unforgettable but completely hard to recount. “I did?” he whispers, “Maybe it’s because I’m straight?”

“Are you sure?”

“I…” He can be, if he says so. Unfortunately, Dean forgets those little magic words. Trapped in limbo, the space between truths. “I’m not… I don’t know.”

Cas steps back, enough that Dean sees his entire face instead of those enchanting blue eyes. It eases the worry plaguing Dean’s mind. “Did you enjoy what just happened? What we did?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you certainly aren’t straight.”

Dean nods. He swallows a lump in his throat, feels it tear itself down into his stomach. He imagines blood spouting out of these gashes, building, climbing up in an escape attempt. He chokes on it. It might not be blood. Maybe-blood-maybe-drool leaks from the corners of his mouth as he asks, in a daze, “Does that mean I’m gay?”

“Or something like it.” Castiel reaches forward, combing through Dean’s sweaty hair in time with the music. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay if you are. That you like… that you kissed me. It’s okay.”

It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t. Not for him. Not with all that’s expected of him. The blueprint of who he’s supposed to be. Who Dean Winchester is. Torn to shreds and raining overhead like the actual confetti that floats down from high above. That were released without notice. Dropped there while he stands, in the middle of the dance floor, petrified by another man’s kiss. Dad’s efforts wasted.

“It’s okay,” Castiel repeats, “it’s okay…” He drifts further away; but before Dean can whine about his absence, he realizes his feet move, too. Castiel leads him from the belly of this ecstatic, partying mob.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Nowhere far, just off the dance floor.” They reach the perimeter, crowd thinned and weak; Cas releases his hold on Dean. Shrugs his shoulders, blessedly smiling at him. “Where you go and... what you do next, well – that’s up to you.”

He’s unprepared for such freedoms. The simplicity of making a choice. A foreign concept when all your life, every decision was already made for you. For other people. Keys don’t choose which doors they open. Hammers don’t make plans on which nails they’ll hit and which they’ll avoid.

Dean giggles, overcome by an intoxicating rush of getting to choose without any real consequence. No judgement, no threats, no guilt. If Dean told Castiel that kiss meant nothing and then bolted out of the bar, he would never have to deal with these conflicting thoughts, actions, and feelings. Never need to see Castiel again.

That isn’t what he wants.

Dean embraces the confusion because he, Dean, wants to. He kisses Castiel, driving them forward until they hit a wall, because he wants to. Tells him, “I want you,” because he does. Because it’s the truth.

And Castiel’s truth, “You can have me,” slots perfectly next to his.

Dean is intimately familiar with the art of kissing. Spent years practicing with ever-changing partners; girls from all over who were probably as bored as Dean felt. Girls who his dad saw and made him beam with pride. Enough girls, so that he called Dean names – different than the ones he thought Dean didn’t know about – like lady killer and chip off the ol’ block. Girls that were good kissers, bad kissers, and mostly unremarkable whatsoever. Dean lost his appetite for kissing, the act not being very fun for him. Not something he might look forward to, even if he said the right things and acted his part perfectly.

Kissing Castiel wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Not unremarkable in the slightest. It elevated the idea of kissing onto another level. A holy act. Placing Castiel on the same level as all his previous entanglements would be similar to heresy.

This isn’t just a kiss. It’s Dean sticking his face into a fuse box with all the switches flicked on. It’s Dean stepping out into a storm without an umbrella. It’s riding down an empty highway, no cops in sight, and abusing the gas pedal until the speedometer needle vanishes.

This kiss is apocalyptic, destroying the notion that anyone besides they two existed.

A hand joins the two roving his body, shaking his arm. Dean laughs, “How’d you do that, Cas?”

“Dean,” Not-Cas says, “hey, uh… Dean?” He turns, Castiel’s lips adorning his jaw with favor, and finds Sam on his other side. Watching. Aware of what he interrupted, given his pained smile and squinted gaze trapped elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’m…” he clears his throat, “I’m kinda ready to leave, if you… you are?”

His fingers curl where Castiel’s shirt is rucked up, dangerously teasing the line of his jeans. Castiel rolls his hips, rutting their cocks against each other again. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, “Yeah I can… we can go.”

Dean extracts himself from Castiel, slowly, taking care to disentangle themselves. Dean flattens Castiel’s mussed hair. He fiddles with the buttons of Dean’s shirts, inexplicably unfastened. Neither speak of how these things happened. “Hey,” he starts, still hovering inside the other man’s personal space, “Um… thank you, for everything. Tonight. From the bar to – uh… to he –!”

Castiel drags him into a kiss, one Dean returns heartily. His hands grabbing fabric while Castiel’s dance around his hips. Consumed by this, Dean ignores his cell phone being stolen. Only becomes aware of it when Castiel ends their goodbye with a smile, Dean’s phone in hand actively calling someone. “My number,” he explains, flipping his phone shut, “to use whenever. Hopefully soon.”

“…Thanks.”

“Good night, Dean.”

“Night, Cas.”

He lingers. He opens his phone, closes it, then slips it back into his pocket. Sam mutters an unintelligible phrase at them, shoving Dean from where he stood. Dean blindly navigates his way towards the exit, seeing nothing but Castiel’s shrinking face that disappears once they step outside.

He expected heat. It’s cold. Not actually, but cooler than the room they left, where bodies and light and energy broke the thermometer. Fresh air brushes his skin, startling Dean from his stupor. Dean jolts awake. His heart plummets down past his ass, chest hollowing. He glances at Sam, about to ask if they ever entered the bar. Or if he hallucinated everything on the walk to it. Dean’s lips purse, then flatten. Sam already walked ahead. He jogs after him.

No one speaks for half their journey.

They pass a twenty-four-hour convenience store Dean remembers, and he knows Baby waits a block around the next corner. Sam chooses then to restart their conversation. “Looks like this trip was good for both of us,” he says, hands shoved inside his pockets. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Learned a lot.”

“Really?” He’s parched. Unbalanced. His feet won’t walk in a straight line, stumbling every few steps. He persists, “What?”

Sam shrugs, “I might have… over-examined that memory of Trevor.” Sighing, Sam kicks an empty, abandoned can into the street. “I guess I was searching for a reason why Jess and my relationship ended like it did. We were going so strong I… I figured it might have been me. That I wasn’t able to love her the way she needed because I couldn’t.”

“Sometimes people just don’t work,” Dean tells him, “and no amount of forcing it is gonna fix it.”

“Yeah…” He spots Baby easily, street deserted save his car and some poor, busted Beetle. Dean searches for his keys, struggling. Sam talks all the while. “And then there are some people who… who click immediately.” Dean tenses, breath stuttering. “How long have you been –?”

He’s back in the bar. He must be. How else could he hear this overwhelming, earsplitting ringing. The kind that makes him stagger, slump against the closest surface and collapse there into a tiny ball, protected from the voice that somehow talks louder than that goddamn ringing. The monster’s voice. The one that sounds strangely similar to his dad’s. Angrily shouting, calling him names. “I’m not,” he said, as always, “I’m not.”

Another sound overpowers the monster and that throbbing din. “Dean! Dean, hey… hey-hey-hey-hey Dean… it’s okay… it’s me, Sam. Sammy.” Someone touches his shoulder. Dean flinches from it. “Come on Dean… I won’t hurt you.” Their voice hitches, sounding waterlogged. “Please, Dean… wherever you think you are, you’re not. I promise. I need you, man. Sammy needs you.”

Look out for Sammy.

Dean forces himself into the present, a herculean feat as shadowed claws dig at him. Fight his attempts. He pries an eye open, then the other. There’s only Sam. Sam, kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. Sam who, though he denies it, carries so much of their dad with him it makes staying calm near impossible. Dean sees a reflection of who Sam could be, that dad hoped Dean might be, that Sam wished he never would be. It was the reason why fatherly adoration came effortlessly when it was for Sam, even during days they hardly spoke. Dean acted as their go between. Hearing praise and relaying it; forever the messenger, carrying wounds and scars.

“Dean, are you… you’re with me, right?” Dean nods, tension melting away. He slides further, knees bumping into Sam’s. A wordless comfort. “Fuck I am so… so sorry. I didn’t, I never meant –“

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, Dean. Fuck!” His shout echoes towards the moon, filling the space left by clear California night. “What if I asked you while you were driving, we could have…”

They might have died.

“Shit…” Dean hisses, rubbing his throbbing head, willing its silence so he can think. He gets one minutes. He uses it wisely, handing Baby’s keys to Sam. “Take ‘em.”

“What?”

“I drank too much anyway.” Wobbling when he rises, Dean proves that true. “You were gonna have to take it, regardless.”

Sam’s expression softens. In turn, Dean’s skin crawls. “Thank you.”

“Just go start the damn car.” Dean won’t follow. Rather sharpening his defenses for the inevitable. Bad music. Lawful driving. Plaintive whines and rhetorical questions, all in an attempt at making Dean talk. About tonight. About their childhood. About signs he didn’t see, how it felt being this while in dad’s presence. Sam will push and push and push until he’s flatter than cardboard. Contents neatly organized and fit for storage.

He hears the soft rumble of Baby’s engine, then that of his phone. A text.

Unknown Number 1 (650) 378-0914: In case you’re wondering, my name is spelled C A S T I E L ;)

Despite what a whirlwind these past few minutes felt like, Dean laughs. Giggles become snorting which become happier tears rolling across his cheeks, tracing over still-damp lines and erasing them from sight. He clutches his phone atop his heart, figure bent as he now wheezes.

Dean reigns in his giddiness. Stares at the message, wondering what he will do. Once Dean decides, he realizes his thumb was already halfway done.

He saves his number under Cas <3. Dean responds, snapping his phone closed quickly before he can reread and second guess.

Sam honks, watching with interest. A thousand questions waiting, hidden by the curious bend of his brows. Because of Castiel, Dean must face them. Will answer them. Is ready for them.

#spn #supernatural #spn fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #sam winchester #sam winchester is an ally #john winchester #john winchester's a+ parenting #fuck john winchester #tw: internalized homophobia #tw: abusive parent #tw: garden-variety homophobia

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the-cat-at-the-theatre-door · 3 years

Note

Gus and Skimbleshanks for the character ask!

All of them?? Oh, gee, okay um...

I'll tell you what - I'll answer all of them for Gus for now, and then perhaps answer them all for Skimble in the future (depending on interest level).

Alright, let’s see...

Gus

Already answered 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10 here!

1. Something this character is truly proud of

Gus is extremely proud of his accomplishments throughout his life, and extremely proud of how he worked up from nothing to get where he is - and he will humbly boast about these accomplishments until the cows come home, ask anyone in his proximity.

But, if I may take a moment to be as sappy as a possibly can, what Gus is *most* proud of is his legacy - aka, his children and his grandchildren. Though he never thought he’d be the nurturing type, and he still really isn’t, there is not a soul alive that has come into contact with Gus the Theatre Cat that does not know of his son and daughter, and later, his group of grandkittens. That’s why he’s always lamenting at the young ones that they “think they’re smart” when they do the bare minimum when he *knows* that they’re able to accomplish more than that.

2.Who they want to please the most.

Gus is, quite literally, a crowd pleaser. He’s a showman, so of course he is. He wants to please his audience, his director, his fellow castmates...all at once. He is also very proud when he manages to please his fellow cats or people in his family - for making a name for himself, for getting somewhere, for reaching such prominence as just a *cat* for crying out loud. He’s made it, and that makes him feel happier than anything else considering where he started.

When kittens tell him that they want to be like him someday, he positively beams.

3. Who depends on them.

His children depended on him for the longest time, but he kinda blew it with that one for a good chunk of their lives - and by the time he had started to come around, they were already independent, and it’s one of his biggest regrets that he didn’t come around sooner.

Nowadays, no one really depends on Gus for physical things or favours, but there are many members of the tribe that depend on him to listen and to talk to them. Gus has a way of spinning situations simply so that they make sense, an eccentric conversation style that is both pleasant and distracting, and is able to read the room *extremely* easily. It’s a little spooky how easily Gus can pick up on a situation, with very little conversation, and how smoothly he can transition conversation/interaction style if necessary. Gus can be rather blunt and honest to a fault, but you’d be hard-pressed to find better life advice than from him.

(If we go with my Gus and Bella are siblings, theory, she used to depend on him a lot when they were young, since their parents also weren’t around much - what goes around and all that - to protect her and watch her)

4. What they would do if they had one month to live

Well...I mean...what is he doing now?

Sorry. A younger Gus would have said he would press on with whatever he was doing at the time. He’d want to be back in the pub with his friends, late into the night. He’d love to get a final dramatic monologue in, a final curtain call; die doing what he loves instead of caught up in a bed.

Now, well, Gus is well aware - somewhere in the back of his mind - that he’s not going to live a long time. He knows the end is nearing. All he really wants is quiet - after a life lived out loud, if he could just collect himself enough to sort everything out one thing at a time, and quietly work through each day he would be grateful. Bored to death, perhaps, but grateful.

He’d like to maybe see Bella again, before he goes.

5. A cherished personal belonging.

The blanket Gus began to wear around his shoulders used to be where his wife and children slept and where his grandchildren currently play, and it has a whole cacophony of different scents attached to it. He hates being parted with it. When things get overwhelming for him, he buries himself in it, curling himself under a literal blanket of familiarity - even if he isn’t quite sure *why* it’s familiar.

11. This character’s favorite piece or pieces of clothing.

He has a pair of gloves that his wife also made for him that Jelly has patched over the years because they’ve worn thin. She ended up having to cut the fingers off and hem them when they became more hole than glove.

He also has a scarf given to him by one of the theatre patrons from an earlier show of his - a little girl with her mother who was only truly fascinated with the cat on stage, and didn’t understand why they didn’t give him a costume as well. She was helping by giving him hers.

12. How they sleep.

He snores and mutters in his sleep, to the point where he seems to have entire conversations with himself. He’s also rather fitful. The kittens are wary of sleeping anywhere near him, since he has been known to jerk awake suddenly and kick out in alarm (and doesn’t he feel guilty the few times that *has* caught a few of them in the ribs or the legs)

13. What kind of parent they would be.

Well he *is* one, and the answer to that question would be not a *great* one, but not a *bad* one either. Gus is a fun parent, a loving parent, a proud parent, but he isn’t the best parental figure. He isn’t so great with discipline, nor is he great for showing up to anything on time.

I’d say Gus’ strength as a parent came from his unfailing willingness to go along with whatever scenario his children would cook up - from pirates to knights and princesses to aliens - Gus was always willing to jump into the game should they invite him to play with them. And you know he threw his entire self into it, too.

14. How they did in school

Gus would have a been a “graduated from Juilliard” kinda guy, if the timeline matched up - or if he could have afforded it.

As it stands, he didn’t really finish school. Not necessarily out of any inability to do so, but a complete and total lack of interest. He held odd jobs mostly, to support his family, which led him to quietly quitting school. He figured anything he wanted to learn would be just as good coming from direct experience or working under a mentor than a formal education - and it got him where he is today, so all in all not bad.

15. What cologne or perfume they would use

There is a very specific one that my grandfather uses that smells exactly like something Gus would wear - it’s that standard older gentleman scent - kind of like...Aqua Velva but softer - that is slightly on the pricy side, but not ridiculously so. He doesn’t bathe in it, but he uses it religiously.

He *used* to dip into a Chanel perfume that one of his actress friends gave to him after one of their shows wrapped, that he *kinda* thought just smelled a lot like lightly spicy rubbing alcohol but felt it polite to at least...use it - when that finally ran out and he curiously checked on its price...he never even looked at it again.

(”Ridiculous...I may as well douse myself in a bottle of gin it’ll give off the same effect!”)

16. Their sexuality

Gus is bisexual and biromantic, with a preference for Queens, but he’s had several trysts with Toms as well. He was quite the paramour in his younger days.

17. What they’d sing at karaoke

Gus finds karaoke to be absolutely *dreadful* in that he legitimately does not see the fun in it OR its purpose. And that’s coming from a cat whose whole job it is to perform.

So count him out of that. He’ll monologue on the spot for you, though, if he is so inclined.

18. Special talents they have

Gus used to be extremely good at remembering people’s names - even after just one introduction or overhearing it once (Jelly gets that from him).

He's very good at patter songs and tongue twisters. He also used to delight his kits by speeding through the alphabet backwards.

He can clock a person's personality within literally seconds of knowing them - and he's usually right.

He plays piano and was the one who taught Jelly to play. He can’t so much anymore with his shaking hands.

19. When they feel safest

Gus feels safest in the light when he's able to see everything. He never got stage fright, per say, but would get waves of nerves when he was directly in a spotlight - with the rest of the stage dark around him...like he was being swallowed. He would get nervous to move out of it - the lighting techs needed to be *very* on the ball if the director called for a total blackout (he only really trusted two of them).

20. Household chore they hate the most

Cooking. 100%. Can't stand it. Does not know how the oven works. Cannot adjust to picky palettes well. Definitely a take out dad.

21. Their fondest childhood memory

(Sibling AU) When Gus and Grizabella were children, they put on “Cinderella” (which Bella insisted would be changed to “Cinderbella” because of course. Gus goes along with it because *whatever fine his mother told him that he was the big brother and had to be nice to her*) as one of their very first collaborative plays together - they were around 8 and 6 respectively. They had already put on dozens of little skits and read-throughs and imaginary games, and they loved doing it.

Bella *refused* to be anyone other than Cinderella and Gus refused to play the prince (because it meant he had to *kiss his sister yuck*), so instead it was really “Staring Grizabella as Cinderella and Asparagus as *literally every other part except for Prince Charming*.- they spent hours trying to figure out how the quick changes would work, and making script changes, and hanging sheets behind them for curtains, and Bella glued together a tiny little suit for her teddy bear who would play the prince instead.

All in all, it went about as well as they could have expected - a bit of a disaster. They put it on for their father, who watched with tired eyes and a patient smile, and applauded enthusiastically at the end - and they both decided right then and there that that was what they would do for the rest of their lives.

He considers that his first stage credit.

22. How they spend their money.

Honestly, Gus’ money spending habits are very strange. He will buy himself a new car *once* and then run the thing into the ground until it physically can’t run anymore, won't buy new clothes until you can see through the old ones, will *always* weasel his way out of paying for alcohol at a bar (he has *many* tricks up his sleeve for this one), and he will refuse to spend his money on other frivolous things, but you bet your dollar that he is literally always shelling out money to his grandchildren just because - saying it would be their little secret, and one time bought a bird house because it "spoke to him" but never bothered to hang it up or actually use it.

23. What kind of alcohol they drink

Well, he used to be a “whatever I am given I will drink and I will probably drink *too much*” kind of guy, but since cutting back he’ll moreso partake in brandy or gin, but only in very small doses.

24. What they wish they could change about themselves

There are several things that Gus wishes he could change from the past, but the one thing he wishes he could truly change about himself in the present is how much of a burden he feels he’s become to the others (he's not but he feels that way). Gus is a proud cat, he will admit that. And with that pride comes mourning of his own independence.

Sometimes, when Jelly is helping him do things - like button up his coat or helping him to eat - he just looks at her forlornly and murmurs “My poor dear. You shouldn’t have to do any of this.”

He also wishes that there wasn’t a period of time that his familial relationships were so strained because of him putting his career first, but he can’t really change that so much as try his best to make up for it.

25. What other people wish they could change about them

Gus has the tendency to be a little...let’s say *long-winded*. And a little hypercritical. He holds himself to a high - near-impossible - standard, so he also has a bad habit of holding others to that same standard.

#sorry it took so long i had to think hard about some of these!#jellicles ask because jellicles dare #is-it-mungojerry-or-rumpelteazer #my headcanons #Gus the Theatre Cat

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idreamofhazeleyes · 3 years

Text

Exploration

Summery: You and Dean plan to dive into some simple bonding after Dean finds you wrapping up rope you use for practice in self rescue. You both wait until Sam’s out with Eileen to act out your kinks.

Pairings: F!Reader x Dean x Cas, Sam x Eileen

Words: 3,068

Warnings: Smut, bondage, general kink, mentions of domestic abuse, unprotected sex

Tags: @squirrelnotsam @mrswhozeewhatsis @optimisticpeacecollector5 @impala-dreamer @idreamofplaid @percussiongirl2017 @ @winchestergirl-13 @mariekoukie6661 @lyarr24 @

You start winding the rope up, it working up from your lap and bed. Your bedroom was semi private enough to practice without anyone just randomly walking in on you like the war room.

“What’s up with the rope?”

Save for now.

You look up to see Dean leaning in the doorway. There was no judgement on his face. Just curiosity.

“Figured it’d be a good skill to have,” you tell him. “Working knots on my own. That way I don’t wait on a rescue if I’m tied up.”

You finish with the rope and set it aside. Part of you suppress a shutter from a memory. You first met the brothers and Cas when they were on a case and pulled you from an abusive partner that was one snap away from killing you.

Since then you’ve stayed with the trio in an odd sense of feeling indebted. In that time, the brothers taught you how to hunt. Sam taught you how to hack. Dean taught you how to shoot. Cas put the same sigil wardings on you he did the brothers and taught you about angels.

“What’s up, Dean?” you ask, shifting on the bed.

Dean shifts his weight before joining you on your bed. You lean over to him, touching his shoulder with his. You don’t push him to open up. He will tell you in good time. Like when he came out to you that he was bisexual. He was half tired and comfortable curled up against you at the time.

“I’m … I watched some videos the other night and I’d …” He swallows hard. “I wanna try some things.”

“Like what?”

Dean reaches for the rope. “I want to be tied up. And you dominating.”

“Are you sure?” You know enough of the BDSM lifestyle to help in what Dean was asking for. “I don’t want you to go into this and panic because you get triggered. Which is why I want you to think of a safe word between now and whenever we do the bondage.”

Dean nods. He shifts and lays his head on your thigh. The only other person you see him so at ease with in physical touch is Cas. Maybe the angel could join in on the fun.

“You trust me to do this?” you ask, knowing the answer. A hand starts playing with his hair.

His head nods, rubbing on your thigh.

Before you respond, a knock at the door catches your attention. Eileen peers into the room.

“Me and Sam are going out for a few hours tonight,” she says, signing as well. “So don’t wait up.”

“Will do,” you sign back.

With Sam and Eileen being out for the night, your mind was racing in trying to come up with a half way decent plan. The rope you have. Dean trusts you to tie him up and give over all control. All you needed was to talk with Cas about it.

“I trust you,” Dean says, breaking into your thought process. “Anything you plan, I trust you.”

That settles in your mind. “Give me a few hours to plan our evening. Go ahead and relax.”

You bend over and kissed the side of Dean’s head.

He pulls himself from you and the bed; returning the kiss before seeing himself from the room. You wait a few minutes before sliding off the bed and start searching for Cas.

You find him in the library reading. You sit in a chair across the table from him, causing him to look up at you.

“Um … Cas. Let me ask you something. And please don’t judge. Are you willing to help me with Dean later? He … wants me to tie him up and dominate him. I have an idea I’d like to run with, but I need your help.”

The idea would work with or without Cas, but it’ll work better with him. You don’t meet the angel’s gaze, not quite wanting to see the thoughts passing over his face.

“What’s the idea?” he asks.

“He works his way out from the knots tying him to the bed,” you start. “The reward would be joining us in … well … sex.”

Cas makes a thoughtful noise. That was a good idea. “I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, Cas.” You get up and hug him before heading out.

You make a trip to Victoria Secret and picket out a few panties; figuring Dean would wear one. And it wouldn’t hurt to surprise him with one for yourself.

Getting back to the bunker, you get things ready in your room. A quick text to Dean to pick two numbers between one and five chose the panties to be worn. The reply comes minute later and you randomly pull out two from the bag. You send a picture of one with “You’re to wear only these tonight.”

You hear Sam and Eileen getting ready for their night out. Which gives you that much time to get ready yourself. A quick shower and a change of comfortable clothes with the new panties.

You nearly step into Cas stepping out of the bathroom. Damn. You weren’t sure if you would last long if he arched his eyebrow like that later.

“My room,” you tell him.

He nods before heading off.

You head in the other direction, hyper aware of the panties for Dean in your pants pocket. You find Dean in his entertainment room, shifting the panties from pocket to hand.

Dean’s reclined in a chair watching a movie as you come up behind him, sliding both hands over his shoulders.

“These are for you,” you whisper in his ear, leaving the panties on his lap. “I expect to see only these on you.”

You pull away and leave. You find Cas in your room securing the rope on the bed legs.

“How do you plan our part?” he asks.

You sigh, wishing it sounded better out loud. “How do you feel about a bit of exhibition?”

“Y/N? Cas?” Sam calls out. “We’re heading out.”

“Be good, you two,” you call back.

You and Cas stand there for a few minutes, as if you both agreed to wait that long to make sure Sam and Eileen were gone.

“Is that part of your plans for tonight?” Cas asks, breaking the silence.

You nod. “Dean’s gonna be able to hear and see us while he’s working at the knots. Gives him a bit more of an incentive on getting free. Unless …” Now you get a little shy talking about what you’re thinking of doing to Dean.

Cas rests a reassuring hand on a shoulder. “Whatever you want to do, I’m with you.”

A throat clearing cough from the door catches your attention.

You look to see Dean standing in the doorway in just the panties you had given him earlier. Beside you, Cas’s breath hitches.

Part of you expected Dean to not follow through with the instructions. But he did and filled out the panties way better than you thought he would. You gesture for him to enter, coming behind him to close the door.

Dean stands at the foot of the bed, staring at the ropes. He froze and you can tell. You rub his upper back.

“We don’t need to do this,” you tell him.

He shakes his head. “I wanna do this. How do you wanna do this?” He looks into y/e/c eyes.

“First, safe word,” you tell him. “Stops everything. Resistance is part of the play, so words like ‘stop’ and ‘don’t’ lose their power. We won’t continue until you come up with a word.”

You glance over to Cas to see him stripping off his trench coat. He was invested in this.

“Pie.” It came out as a whisper, but you heard it.

“Pie, got that. Now, I want you to get on the bed and lay on your back.” You gesture Cas to one side while you take the other. It takes a few minutes to secure the rope on Dean’s wrists and ankles.

“What …” Dean starts.

You do your best imitation of Cas’s look, silencing Dean. “I’m not going to tell you what I have in mind.” You trace a finger along his side from armpit to waist, just stopping short of the hemline of the panties. “I will tell you this; free yourself from these ropes, and you’ll be rewarded. If you don’t within …” You find your cell and set a timer. “A half hour, you’ll miss out.”

“On what?”

You move over to Cas and pull him down just enough to kiss him. Your hands work at his tie before working off the suit coat. Sounds from the bed pull you from Cas. You sit next to Dean, teasing a nipple. “If you manage to free each limb, you’ll be rewarded as well.” The hand moves down from the nipple and start working at the budging panties.

His hips bucked into your palm.

You pull your hand away. “That is not possible right now, Dean.” You stand and feel Cas start working at your shirt, keeping your gaze on Dean.

He starts working on freeing his hands.

The shirt is pulled over your head, revealing a cute bra that lifted you up.

Dean stopped moving long enough for you to notice.

You smirk at him before turning to Cas, arms reaching back to unclasp the bra.

Cas licks his lips in a way that reminds you of Dean.

There was something in the slight rush of pulling Cas’s shirt from his pants and working the buttons free. His hands move over your skin, sending the little hairs to stand on end. You don’t hesitate matching his movements, hands working at undoing his pants as he works off his shirt.

He leans in and kisses the side of your neck, hands hooking at the hem of your lounge pants.

“Y/N,” Dean calls out.

You glance over to see that he had freed a hand. Freeing your legs from the lounge pants, you climb onto the bed. A smile appears on your face when you see Dean’s gaze drip from your chest to the panties.

“A reward.” You take the free hand and guide it to your clit.

“You’re wet,” Dean moans.

Part of you wants to stay there while Dean works at you. But you pull away before you lose yourself in his menstruations. You lean over and whisper, “You’ll get more if you free yourself.”

Returning your attention back to Cas, you find that he is standing there in all his glory watching you.

“You’re good at this,” he whispers, a hand sliding over your abdomen under the panties.

“Working out the rough spots,” you whisper back. You guide Cas back until his legs bump against a chair and push him back into it. “Are you okay with me … We didn’t actually discuss if you were …”

Cas pulls you in to straddle him, his hands supporting you until you settle. You reach down as you lift up just enough and guide him in. His head rolls back as you sink down on him, hands on your sides.

“Y/N,” Dean’s voice broke.

You ignore him. Your attention was on Cas and making sure he was getting attention.

“Y/N,” Dean calls again. “Please. I can’t free my ankles.”

“He freed his other arm,” Cas tells you.

You stop and meet his blue eyes. He was silently pleading with you to go tend to Dean. For some reason you know he would follow you to the bed. Nodding, you free yourself from Cas and turn your attention to Dean.

He is sitting up and struggling with the rope around an ankle. Half hidden is his full budge tucked into the panties.

“Don’t struggle with it,” you tell him, easing him back onto the bed. “Otherwise, you won’t get rewarded fully.” A hand reaches into the panties and frees Dean. He moans as you work at his cock.

“S’good,” he says.

“I know you can free your feet,” you tell him as a hand finds a breast.

“I can’t.”

You bat the hand away and stand from the bed. “Then you won’t finish.”

“But I…”

“You what? Want to finish? You trust me to do this. I trust you to free yourself. Hang on for a second.” You find your cell and find that the timer is ten minutes from going off. You stop it and show Dean. “There is now no time limit. But. Cas and I will continue our fun.”

Dean groans against the changes you make.

You lean back against Cas as his hands find the hem of your panties and pull them down. Stepping out of them, you turn to face the angel; who was still kneeling. One of your hands absently runs through his hair as one of his hands finds its way to your core and his tongue meets your clit.

“That’s my good angel,” you say loud enough for him and Dean to hear. “Show Dean how to please me.”

Two fingers slide into you, teasing at your g-spot. Your eyes flutter half close. “Gonna … need more than … that, Cas.”

He pulls away and kisses up your stomach, stopping long enough to suck at each nipple, before latching onto the side of your neck. A hand holds your thigh and pulls your leg up to his hip. You reach down and guide Cas into your folds before he thrusts into you.

Pressing against him, you hold yourself against him. The stance was awkward to hold, but you refuse to stop. Your hips attempt to match his. Behind you sounds of Dean moving from the bed reaches your ears.

He was free.

“Dean, come here,” you tell him, pulling yourself off Cas. You give him a kiss before turning to face Dean. “Do you want your reward?” You work the panties off of him, hands brushing against his erect penis.

He nods, fingers twitching in his want to touch you. “I do. Please, I want you. Both of you.”

“You may touch me. Sit on the bed, love.” You move with him, feeling Cas behind you.

Dean settles even as you straddle his lap. Cas sits on the bed facing the two of you. This close you can’t tell what hands belonged to who as you push Dean onto his back and sheathed him into you.

Hands moved over your body as you reached for each of the men.

Cas moves away and you hear a drawer open then close. “Y/N, can you adjust?”

You look over to see Cas coating his cock with lube. It took a small effort to get Dean on his side.

“Don’t move,” you tell Dean. “Do you want to try something? It may be uncomfortable at first.”

You see his face contort a little as Cas teases his cock at Dean’s ass.

“I want …”

“What do you want, Dean?”

“Cas. Ass.”

You nod to Cas, who eases himself into Dean. He relaxes in your arms. Your hips shift, your body wanting more. Cas pulls out. He pushes back in, forcing Dean deeper into you. Your chest presses against Dean’s.

He pulls out and onto Cas as he pulls out.

Dean’s pushed back in from Cas’s momentum.

You don’t stop it. Not that you could. Hands moved over bodies. One finds its way to your clit, a finger circling it. One of yours finds its way behind Cas.

“Don’t. Stop.” Someone begs. You swear it was you, but can’t be sure.

Your core tightens around Dean.

Cas groans.

The sensation of being filled as Dean shutters in your arms washes over you.

The three of you lay there in each other arms, coming down from the high of your orgasms. You thread a hand through Dean’s hair.

“How do you feel?” you ask him. “Any rope burns I need to take care of?”

He shakes his head against you. “No.”

You feel a slight weight shift behind Dean. As much as you don’t want to, you move as well. Folding your legs under you, you pick up one of Dean’s arms and check his wrist before checking the other. Both are a little red but nothing serious enough to warrant ointment.

Shifting down to his ankles, you find they were in a similar state as his wrists.

“You were good tonight,” you tell Dean, coming back to his gaze. “Now, you stay here with Cas while I get some water and snacks for us. Cas, can you ensure he’s comfortable?”

The angel nods and you work yourself off the bed.

You grab your bathroom and secured it around you as you step out into the hallway. Part of you is glad that Sam and Eileen were still out even though Sam’s seen enough in wound stitching sessions to have lost that sense of wanting to cover up.

In the kitchen, you load up a bag of sweets and bottles of water. Granted it was something you should have done before hand, but this was good. It gives Dean and Cas time alone.

Back in your room, you find Dean and Cas cuddling on the bed. You shed the robe as you head to the bed. You climb in on Dean’s free side before handing him a bottle of water and a candy bar. “Drink. Eat,” you tell him. “Anything you need, I got it.”

You sit there and ensure that he drinks and eats what you give him.

“Anything?” he asks.

You nod. “Anything.”

“Can we cuddle? All three of us?”

“Of course.” You set the bag aside and adjust yourself and the pillows so you were comfortable before opening your arms to Dean. He settles his head on your chest, his body resting against yours even as Cas rests against his.

“Can we do this again?” Dean asks. “And maybe with a bit more planning?”

You make an amused sound. “Sure.”

You doze off even as Dean falls asleep. Somewhere in the Bunker sounds echo. Signaling that Sam and Eileen were back. Cas gets up and grabs a blanket to cover you all.

“Guys?” Sam called out before stopping at your room.

You don’t hear anything else, but naturally assume that he was signing to Eileen. No judgement from them. Sure, the three of them can do this again.

#Supernatural SPN Dean Winchester Dean Castiel Cas Destiel Female Reader

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wolvesofinnistrad · 4 years

Text

On AO3

When Hen shoves the tickets in Eddie’s hands last minute he doesn’t get to ask much beyond “What are these?”

“Baseball tickets. Got them for Karen and Denny and I but, well, shit came up.”

Eddie looks at the tickets then back to Hen. “These are really good seats…”

The look Hen gives him says more than her words. “I know.”

“Sure you won’t be able to make it?”

“Definitely not. I don’t want them to go to waste though, thought you could take Christopher.”

“Tha-”

“And Buck.”

That makes Eddie pause. He’s forgiven Buck for all the drama, and they are back to being friends, but a day out with him seems a little more daunting than it would have last month.

“No buts Eddie. That boy needs a little fun and relief after all he’s been through. All three of you do.”

Eddie starts to say something but decides against it, nodding and smiling.

“Thanks Hen.”

“Don’t mention it. Have fun.”

“We Will!”

He waits until later to talk to Buck, avoiding it like the coward he’s apparently turned into. Finally, knowing he needs to do this before Buck makes plans or Hen finds out he’s a chicken he swallows his pride, sighs and heads over to Buck.

“Hey Buck.”

Buck looks up at the sound of his voice, a smile instantly passing over his face, albeit still a bit apprehensive.

“H-hey Eddie.”

He’s packing up, shift over and Eddie’s glad he caught him honestly.

“So, uh, Hen had some baseball tickets and, well, they can’t make it anymore so she gave them to me.”

“That’s great!” Buck pats him on the arm, though it’s clear by his expression he isn’t sure what this has to do with him.

“Well, uh, I thought you could come with us. Me and Christopher?”

It’s then Eddie realizes how different the smile Buck gave him before is, because this time it seems to engulf his entire face, lighting up his eyes in a way that makes Eddie feel like he’s staring at the sun.

“You want me to come with you guys?”

His voice is so hopeful and happy that Eddie can’t bear to say Hen all but forced him to do it. And in that moment as he nods and Buck grins and shakes his head up and down like a golden retriever Eddie forgets why he was so worried about this.

It’s just Buck. Buck his best friend.

Buck nearly jumps on him giving him a hug. Eddie winces, but tries not to flinch away like the last time, he doesn’t need Buck to notice his sore body.

Luckily, Buck’s too distracted with the idea of going to the game with the Diaz family to notice because he bounds out of the station with more pep in his step than Eddie’s seen in months.

Christopher is, of course, overjoyed.

Not so much about the tickets themselves, he doesn’t care too much either way about the game.

But a day with Buck?

Christopher doesn’t stop talking about it the entire day.

Or the next, or any of them really until its the day of the game.

When Buck arrives he runs over, picking Christopher up and swinging him around for a big hug.

“I missed you buddy!”

“I missed you too Bucky!”

Something pulls in Eddie’s chest when he sees it, its something he’s been noticing for a while, and after the tsunami even more, but then with everything that had happened with Buck after he’d kind of forgotten the way his stomach kind of swooped as he watched Buck so effortlessly show affection for his son, so genuinely enthused to be around him.

Eddie didn’t bother looking anything up about the tickets, so he doesn’t notice anything different about the mess of fans swarming into the stadium along with them. At least not at first.

It’s only when the fifth rainbow flag passes by him that it starts to click, just the tiniest bit. His eyes scan the crowd and there’s the usual fans milling about, talking and laughing or running off to the bathroom or their seats, but there’s also a ton of families.

Families that look a lot like his family right now.

2 men are swinging their daughter, he assumes at least, between them, they both have on Dodgers jerseys with a rainbow color scheme. Another two men kiss briefly before one runs off to the concession stand. 2 women and their three children are waiting in line to buy funnel cake. Another 2 and their son are carrying beers while their son swings a memorial foam finger around.

His throat feels dry as he stares back at Buck and Christopher who are walking back towards him. Christopher is riding on Buck’s shoulders, a little Dodger’s hat on his head that has a rainbow on the side.

“Where’d you get that buddy?” Eddie asks, just to have something to say because his mind is kind of reeling from how this must look to everyone else.

“Bucky bought it for me! Isn’t the rainbow pretty!” Christopher swings the hat around wildly, giggling like mad.

Buck’s looking up to him, hands braced on either side of him to make sure he doesn’t fall and Eddie sees it, how clearly from the outside they look like every other couple here with their kid. He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling he gets, so he tries not to think of it.

Fumbling with his wallet he grabs a couple bills. “How much was the hat?”

Buck shakes his head, pushing the wallet away, his hand resting over Eddie’s for just a moment and sending a jolt up the older man’s arm.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s my gift to Chris for not seeing him for awhile. Sorry about that again buddy.”

“It’s okay Buck. I missed you.”

“I missed you too Chris. SO much.”

Eddie has to turn away because his stomach feels like it’s full of butterflies and he really doesn’t know what the fuck is going on with him today. He tells himself its just the weirdness of the entire situation.

That’s all it is.

It has to be.

“So uh, let’s get to our seats, yeah?”

Eddie leads them down to their seats, which he still can’t believe are this good. He’s going to really have to thank Hen after this.

They pass quite a few more gay and lesbian couples, and others that he thinks might be straight ones before seeing little flags in different colors on them that he doesn’t quite recognize all of them.

They take a seat, Christopher in between them and Eddie smiles, taking a breath of the fresh air, looking up at the sky and then back to Chris. To Buck. His boys.

He doesn’t know where the thought comes from but it makes him smile, and when Buck turns towards him, he smiles too.

If Buck has noticed anything odd about the huge amount of LGBT couples and their kids he hasn’t said anything, and Eddie’s at least glad for that. Of course, Hen bought these tickets so it wouldn’t be on Eddie anyway he reassures himself.

But then again, Eddie questions why he feels like he would even need to reassure himself if there’s nothing abnormal about any of this. It’s just him and his best friend taking his son to a baseball game.

The fact it must be, like, Pride night or something doesn’t mean anything.

He’s certain of it.

They laugh and chat, explaining some things to Christopher, when Eddie’s thoughts get a bit too uncomfortable he excuses himself to go grab them some drinks and food.

As he’s walking towards the concession stand, which is pretty crowded with lines snaking down the interior hallway, one of the merch booths catches his eye.

He stops for a moment, not sure why since he doesn’t really want to buy any of this overpriced stuff. He feels pulled towards a board with a bunch of enamel pins on it and he realizes this is where all those people with the flags must have gotten them.

He’s not sure why he keeps looking, but up close he can tell it’s not exactly a flag, or rather it is, but instead of a flagpole the flag is hanging from a baseball bat. He sees the rainbow one which he recognizes, but there are so many others. A blue, pink and white one that he remembers seeing someone wearing earlier, a mostly black and gray and white one, a couple weird ones that look like a desertscape and a police flag, but they have strange animal symbols and a heart on them.

Then he notices underneath they say what they are and he goes back and rereads them. He’s not really sure what it means under the Bear and Leather ones, or really half of them if he’s honest, but as he keeps scanning his eyes stop one and he feels his stomach clench.

He’s seen it before, he can’t quite remember where, but he knows he has. The little pink, purple and blue lines seem so straight, even if he mentally laughs at the way that sounds. His fingers reach out, wanting to touch it, feel it beneath his fingertips but he stops at the last moment, not sure why he should do that.

Bisexual.

That’ s what the little sign under the flag says, he stares at it, maybe for a bit too long.

“Bisexual.”

He hears the words, and for a moment he thinks he’s said them himself before there’s a hand pointing past him.

“Sorry man, but yeah, I want a bi flag for my boyfriend, and then a gay one for me. Thanks.” The voice comes from a shorter guy beside him. His skin is deep and dark, he gives the guy a bright smile as he passes him his card back and forth before taking the pins with him.

Eddie follows him with his eyes, watching him walk over to a veritable tower of muscle. The second guy, his boyfriend he guesses, picks him up and spins them both around after he’s been given the pin. Eddie looks away when they start kissing, not sure why he’s stared so long. When he passes by them on the way to the concessions he sees they’re putting the flag pins on their jerseys and he shakes his head.

Get it together Diaz, he thinks.

Once he has the food he takes it back, both relieved and weirdly disappointed he doesn’t see the two guys from before anywhere around. Eddie shakes it off, walking back to his seats, seeing Chris yelling along with Buck, albeit a moment or two after, taking his cues from the man.

He laughs, grinning as he slides into his seat and passes them their food. Christopher immediately starts eating his mini donuts out of the little hard plastic baseball cap they’re sold in. It was stupidly expensive, but he figured Chris would be excited to keep it as a memento.

When he looks over to Buck his eyes are on the game, taking his hot dog and putting it to his mouth. Eddie chuckles as he watches Buck shove far too much of into his mouth before finally biting. He’s surprise the man doesn’t choke.

And then his eyes shift sideways towards a guy sitting a seat down from Buck who’s staring at Buck like he wants to devour Him.

Eddie narrows his eyes at the guy, giving him a royal stink face and once the guy notices he puts his hands up, flushing and turning away in embarrassment.

A little surge of pride or satisfaction flows through Eddie and he’s not sure why. He studiously ignores that seeing that guy so openly staring at Buck felt a little like jealousy.

But that’s stupid.

So stupid.

He just didn’t want Buck to feel weird or uncomfortable.

Not that Buck had even noticed or probably would have, his eyes seem to only go from the game to Christopher, although as he’s staring at Buck, and he can admit he is staring now, the man turns to him and gives him a quizzical look.

“D’I got sumfing on my face?” Buck says with a too full mouth and Eddie cracks up.

“Yeah Buck a bit of mustard.”

Buck wipes at his mouth with his wrist but doesn’t get it.

“Nope.”

Again Buck wipes, and once more and neither time does he manage to eradicate the stray topping. Eddie sighs, taking pity on his idiot best friend and reaches over, swiping his finger over Buck’s chin, his thumb catching for just a moment’ on Buck’s bottom lip and tugging at it.

It’s only when he meets Buck’s eyes, or rather notices that Buck won’t meet his, cheeks subtly pinking that he realizes that was kind of weird.

Do friends wipe the other’s mouths?

Is that a thing bros do?

God he hopes so. He really, really hopes that’s a totally normal thing that guys do.

After that Eddie busies himself with his own food, with Christopher who needs to go to the restroom after a while, and later with grabbing some peanuts from a vendor that’s yelling what he thinks might be a bit more suggestive slogans than is entirely necessary.

Buck of course has laughed at every one of them which makes Christopher and then Eddie laugh like a domino effect.

In fact Eddie’s almost forgot about the weirdness of earlier, getting out of his head and just enjoying the game, enjoying this day with what are honestly two of his favorite people.

And that’s when he hears Christopher squeal between them and he looks down to see Chris frantically pointing up at the big screen.

“What?”

“We’re on TV!”

That makes Buck and Eddie both look up, noticing at the same time what’s currently on the hugest screen in the stadium.

It’s a camera zoomed in on Eddie and Buck and Christopher, and there’s a big rainbow colored heart overlayed on top of the image that surrounds all three of them.

Eddie, quite frankly, wants to murder Hen in that moment.

He turns to Buck and sees him blushing furiously, and he’s at least thankful someone is as embarrassed as he is.

And then the chanting starts up.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss!” It feels like it’s coming from everywhere all at once, he flicks his head back to the screen and it’s still on them, waiting.

Oh God it’s waiting for them to kiss.

For him and Buck,

To kiss.

On live TV in front of thousands and thousands of people.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss!” Christopher chants now between them, joining in with the rest of the stadium. With seemingly the entire world it feels like.

His eyes turn to Buck and he expects to see that same embarrassment, maybe even anger, but instead Buck just smiles, laughing.

Then Buck shrugs and grabs Eddie by the front of his jersey, dragging him into a passionate kiss.

Eddie’s entire world stops, sound rushing out, eyes closed, and it feels like the only thing that exists in the world is Buck’s lips pressed against his, the hand that’s snaked up to cup his cheek.

Then the sound comes back in like the tides, a roaring crowd clapping and still all he feels is Buck.

Buck Buck Buck.

He kisses back, maybe a bit more eagerly than he intends to because this is the best thing he’s felt in years.

God he forgot how good it felt to kiss someone.

To kiss someone you really cared about.

And it’s right as that thought passes through his head that Buck let’s him go, Eddie collapsing into a puddle of goo in his seat.

Faintly he hears more whoops and catcalls, out of the corner of his eye he sees someone clapping Buck on the shoulder from behind. Eddie’s mind is having trouble processing hat just happened, he feels like he’s drowning in endorphins though, his stomach bottomed out like he just went on a roller coaster.

When he can finally move his head he turns to Chris, needing to check on him, to make sure that he isn’t freaking out, but he’s just, sitting there laughing and smiling.

“Hey daddy! We were on TV!”

“Yeah… Yeah we were kiddo…”

Eddie feels breathless, he looks over at Buck and notices he’s staring at the field, or trying to anyway, his eyes slide towards him but as soon as he notices Eddie is watching him he casts them back out to the field.

There’s a blush high on Buck’s cheeks.

Eddie can’t believe that just happened.

In fact, by the end of the game, after the fireworks have gone off, to Christopher and Buck’s utter delight, he almost thinks that maybe it was all some kind of dream or trick of his imagination.

That is until he feels someone tapping him on the shoulder as they’re waiting for some of the crowd to die down before chancing taking Christopher out of the stands.

“Hey, I thought you should have this. It turned out really well.”

The woman is smiling serenely, her hair is graying and she’s got a camera around her neck and another in her other hand. IN the hand held out to Eddie there’s a photo, one of those instant ones, but a really good quality one he can tell just by glancing at it.

“Me?” He says, a little confused.

“Yes, you and your partner and son just looked so… Adorable, I couldn’t resist, I hope that’s alright.”

He takes the proffered photo, and there it is in brilliant color. Buck kissing Eddie, their lips locked together, a look of utter bliss on both of their faces. Just beneath them is Chris with his head bent back screaming or laughing, clearly overjoyed. And in the far back is the big picture on the screen, partially obscured, but just enough to see the opposite angle of them that everyone else saw.

Eddie’s breath leaves him for a moment and before he can say anything a second woman is at the other’s side.

She’s about the same age, but her hair is done up differently, or was before the heat of the day had messed with it.

“We have to go honey or we’ll be stuck in even worse traffic.

“Alright I’m coming, I just wanted these wonderful boy to have that photo.”

They leave and all Eddie can do is shout “Thank you!” to them after they’re already halfway up the stairs.

The woman stops and gives him a little wave before leaving with her partner.

“Well that… was a wild game.”

“Yeah, it really was.” Buck is smirking now, and since when did Buck’s smirk make Eddie’s mind stop working.

Probably when he learned what it felt like to be kissed within an inch of his life by Evan Buckley.

“You have a good game buddy?” Buck is conversing with Christopher as the rest of the stands empty out into the hallways and lobbies.

“Best day EVER!!!” Christopher yells, laughing and smiling.

Buck and Eddie share a glance, Buck biting his lip, Eddies eyes drawn to them before he breaks away.

“Well let’s, uh, get going, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

They have to wait in a crazy line just to get out of the stands, and as they’re finally breaking into the main area he spots the same vendor from before, or just another selling the same things, he can’t be certain.

His eyes catch on the pins again and his mind is chanting at him not to do this, that it’s stupid, that he can’t take this back if he does it. But his heart is just aching to touch the one from before.

“Can I have one of these?”

“Which one you want?”

Eddie turns, sees Buck coming towards him carrying a dozing Christopher who’s worn out by now.

“The, uh, the bisexual one?” Eddie’s certain his voice raises two octaves as he says it, but he doesn’t back down. His eyes meet Buck’s and there’s recognition there, but no reproach, no disgust.

Buck stands besides him, their eyes locked on each other, and as the man’s reaching for the pin Buck says “can you make that two Bisexual pins?”

Eddie feels a grin splitting his lips.

Buck smiles at him, and he realizes it’s one he’s never seen before. It’s shy, private.

Just for him.

And really, the fact he knows Buck’s different smiles maybe should have clued him into some things before this.

Buck puts the pin on Eddie’s shirt, and Eddie puts the pin he bought on Buck’s baseball cap. He’s reminded of the two men that he saw before doing a similar ritual and he can’t help but smile.

When they walk out of the baseball stadium they look like any other family there.

Right down to their interlocked hands as they head to the car.

#eddie diaz #buck buckley #evan buck buckley #buddie #eddie x buck #9 1 1 fox #mine #fanfic #my fic #100

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miggydiaz · 3 years

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for the salty ask: 3, 7, 10, 11, 15, 16, 19, 22, 23, 24, 25 and 27 for spn

I had to do this one today because I have a LOT of Supernatural feelings and so a lot of these are even longer than my CK one. But thanks for the ask @wonderwolfballoon!

UNPOPULAR SUPERNATURAL OPINIONS AHOY: INCLUDES ANTI-DESTIEL SENTIMENTS AND OTHER UNSAVORY ELEMENTS

3. Have you ever unfollowed someone over a fandom opinion? 100000000% I have unfollowed someone over a fandom opinion in the SPN fandom. SPN was the fandom that taught me to make JUDICIOUS use of the blocking feature tumblr offers in order to curate my experience. I would actually encourage anyone and everyone to use the blocking feature if they disagree with people. Honestly, we don’t owe anyone our time or energy, especially on the internet! It is much healthier than sending or responding to hate, IMO. 7. Is there anything you used to like but can’t stand now?* This is actually a hard one for me to answer, so let me start by saying -- I have not seen a SINGLE episode since 9x05? I think? Whichever episode was the Dr. Deanlittle one where he talks to animals. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I LOVE LOVE LOVE the first 5 seasons, and they are all I watch anymore and I pretend nothing else exists after that (except The French Mistake because that episode is hilarious). But uh... I guess the simple answer is when I was originally watching it, I really loved Dean. He was brash, snarky, rough around the edges... but kind of soft in a I’m too toxically masculine to deal with my softness sort of way that I love seeing characters grow out of as they mature. But when I go back and rewatch now, much older than I was in 2006 when I first started watching, I see how awful a lot of his older behavior truly was. I still love Dean, and I will be a Dean girl until I die probably, but sometimes you gotta remind yourself that your faves have been problematic in the past so you don’t put them up on fandom constructed pedestals.

10. Most disliked arc? Why? AND AS A BONUS, MY ANSWER to 11. Is there an unpopular character you like that the fandom doesn’t? Why? I could write a literal essay about all of the problems I have with the later seasons (the ones I watched, which encompasses 6, 7, 8, and a few episodes of 9). But by far and away, the thing I hated most, was the Men of Letters.

Okay, this is where I am going to recognize my love of certain characters is at FUNDAMENTAL ODDS with how that character develops later and what history and background we get later on them. I RECOGNIZE this character is problematic, and I would NEVER STAND for his shit IRL, but fiction is complicated and nuanced, and fantastic circumstances do not make for normal behaviors. That being said, with all warnings I could possibly give, and with the full understanding that what I am about to say is basically fandom blasphemy of the highest order...

I like John Winchester’s character.

I know, I know. If you wanna stop reading and block me now, you are free to do that. I will not hold it against you. I am not about to apologize for anything he has done. I just need to contextualize why I have such an issue with the MOL storyline and it starts with the simple fact that I liked John Winchester as he was originally presented.

To me, and with the full understanding that I am answering this from the perspective of someone who DOES NOT regard anything past season 5 as personal canon, John Winchester is the perfect example of a truly complicated character. Here’s a parent who, if we take the pilot and the original s2 Djinn episodes at face value, could have been a great parent, who then got shoved into a fantastically impossible situation and made terrible choices that he thought were necessary in order to keep himself and his sons safe. That does not EXCUSE the heaps of abuse that he piled onto Dean in any way. We know John and Mary didn’t have a great marriage. But we also know from the pilot that John was at least a caring and present father, mostly, for the 4 years he got to parent in a normal world, and that if Mary had lived, John would’ve been a softball playing dad who raised his kids and had a loving marriage with his wife. (Again, I need to reiterate, I did not watch anything past the early episodes of s9. If there is later canon that negates this, I do not know about it, nor do I want to because I don’t think of anything past 5 as canon) This is all important to me because these things emphasize that John was “NORMAL”. He was a mechanic, from a family of mechanics, whose father didn’t bail on him (a man in the episode where Dean is transported back in time to Lawrence tells John to ‘say hi to your old man for me’ or something to that effect). He was just a midwestern dude. Giving John Winchester a fantastical background through this Men of Letters bullshit made me SO MAD. First of all, I hate when later canon negates previous canon. I cannon TELL you how much I hate it. And the later seasons of Supernatural are riddled with stuff that doesn’t make any damn sense in the context of original, Kripke written canon, which is exactly why I stopped watching. That’s not ~Evolution of the show.~ That’s conveniently forgetting stuff that made your show and its premise so successful to begin with in order to keep filming episodes so you can keep making money. It’s the sacrifice of art for capitalism and yes I know this is a stupid TV show but as a writer myself it PISSES ME OFF.

/rant

ALSO, the idea that this toxically masculine family was set on this path by Heaven, and inherited this curse that put them on this path from their mother was such a good plot twist in its heyday. We spent four seasons thinking of Mary Winchester as a victim of circumstance, whose fate could not have been avoided because she was the mother to Sam, who is effectively cursed. And then, we learn that its BECAUSE of Mary that this ball even got rolling in the first place. IDK if you were around for that time in the fandom but at least in my circle, this was a big fucking deal. There had been so much (rightful) discourse about John before this, and what kind of parent he was, that Mary became almost deified in the same way Dean deifies her. And then we find out that this whole story gets set in motion by a decision she made because this was the life she found herself in. This was great. It was interesting. And even though the MOL doesn’t negate any of this, it does give John this weirdly fantastical that isn’t necessary. Let this guy be just some Joe Schmoe who fell in love with a kick ass hunter and had no idea any of this even existed. Let Mary and her want to be ‘normal’ be a complicated moral choice that fundamentally altered the paths of her husband and sons. It’s good tv!

Also, I fucking hate the bunker. The best episodes are Dean and Sam having moments in the car, or while in motel rooms on their cases, or whatever. I don’t mind them having a home base. I’m fine with that. But if a building could ever be a Mary Sue character, the bunker is it. I hate all of the MOL storyline, starting with this place.

I may not even tag this as Supernatural, I don’t need angry later season stans in my inbox.

15. Unpopular opinion about the manga/show?

There’s nothing good about anything that happened after season 6. It’s all a bunch of retconning bullshit. Season 6 had its moments where it was interesting, so I cut it a little bit of slack, but as far as I’m concerned, the show ended in season 5. I’m not sure that’s necessarily unpopular, but it does feel that way on tumblr, so.

16. If you could change anything in the show, what would you change?

Aside from ending it in season 5?

Oooh, I’m about to blaspheme again. I am definitely not tagging this as Supernatural.

I would never have introduced Castiel, and I would’ve given that entire storyline to Anna. Or, alternatively, I would’ve flipped their story lines.

Look, for whatever it’s worth... I agree with the idea that Dean Winchester is a repressed bisexual. His Dr. Sexy love, the entire storyline with Benny in season 8, etc. I just don’t think he feels romantically about Castiel. And like, that’s okay! Just because you’re not into someone who is into you doesn’t mean you owe them a relationship or anything, no matter what the fandom thinks.

But I also think Dean has a big problem when it comes to women. Again, obviously later on in the series, Dean shifts and Charlie happens and Claire Novak and I know all of these things from gifs okay, context is not applicable here because I have none. But early on, Dean struggles A LOT with thinking of women as A) capable and B) trustworthy. He exists in a perpetual state of identifying women along the Madonna/Whore binary. Even Jo, however you feel about her, and to be clear, I loved Jo, but he doesn’t stop thinking of her really as a kid until they’re about to shoot the devil. Up until then, he’s genuinely surprised Ellen lets her out of the damn house.

Giving him a strong, capable woman who rebels against Heaven for HIM would have fundamentally altered Dean’s perceptions of women much earlier on than we get and would have forced him to examine some of that misogyny head on.

Dean has no problems trusting men. This is why the entire Gordon fiasco happens, right? It was less work for him to trust Castiel because Castiel is the inverse of Ruby. Angel to her Demon. Angels and demons don’t really have genders, but for the sake of presentation of vessels, man to her woman. Not even getting me started on the problematic parts of having significant demons mostly symbolized by women (Meg, Ruby, Lilith) and having significant angels mostly represented by Men (Castiel, Michael, Lucifer, Zachariah, Gabriel, Raphael), and how that ties into the idea of Original Sin and yada yada, but just like it’s interesting to have Mary and her decisions be the catalyst for the story, it’s interesting to have this badass warrior angel in Anna who marches down to Hell to yank Dean out, and through her interactions with him, decide to rebel against the ultimate patriarchy, while Dean gets an equally strong female counterpart to Sam’s Ruby, a woman for all intents and purposes that he respects as a soldier and an ally and not just a potential piece of ass.

Also, Castiel fans being literally unbearable is why I left the fandom. Nothing against Misha or anything, and not even anything against Cas as a character (who I very much enjoyed in seasons 4 and 5), but his fans have always been the worst and they try to insert him into everything.

19. What is the one thing you hate most about your fandom?

Castiel/Destiel fans, which even though I also hated the direction the show was going, drove me out of the fandom. Not like, personally or directly, but just the sheer mental hoops they had to jump through in order to make their ship work and I just got tired of seeing all of the contrived meta on my dash. Oh, and the rampant misogyny that came out of those early Castiel fans. I didn’t appreciate it from the Wincest corner, and I definitely didn’t appreciate it from the fans of the new guy. Gross.

22. Popular character you hate?

Oof. I don’t know. I don’t really hate Castiel, because again, I liked him a lot in seasons 4 and 5. Even 6 was interesting, even if I don’t regard it as my own personal show canon. I don’t think there was a popular character in those first five seasons I ever really hated. I didn’t fundamentally hate a character at all until the MOL stuff came around. Um. Yeah, I don’t really have an answer for this.

23. Unpopular character you love?

Pretty much every female character ever. Jo, Ellen, Ruby, Meg... although Meg became more popular as the series went on, Anna. Um. OH, BELA. Bela ESPECIALLY, I recently rewatched season 3 and I cannot emphasize how MUCH I love Bela. She was the best purely human foil ever. Bela is hands down the character I love most that the fandom had frothing at the mouth hatred for. It doesn’t help that I legitimately think Lauren Cohan is one of the most beautiful women on the planet. But seriously, Bela. Hands down.

24. Would you recommend XXX to a friend? Why or why not?

I have! Many of times, and ALWAYS WITH THE CAVEAT to stop at the end of season 5. Not a single one of them has listened to me and almost all of them came to me at the end of the finale and were like WHY DID I WASTE SO MUCH TIME, and I don’t want to say I told them so, but like, I explicitly in neon colored text once told them so, so like, idk what to tell them. But yes! I think if someone is interested in some classic mystery television that has an overarching theme of family and forgiveness and striking out against the boxes that life tries to put us all into, SPN is a great show. But only the first 5 seasons. Also, be prepared for some thematically problematic parts of the show because there’s a lot of cishet toxic masculinity in those early seasons, and we should examine our media critically. There’s also a lot of good though too, and IMO, the good outweighs the bad.

25. How would you end XXX/Would you change the ending of XXX?

I would’ve ended it at season 5. I would’ve had Sam escape the pit and seen him standing under the street lamp, but then I would’ve had him walking away to leave Dean with Lisa (btw, side note, I DIDN’T like Lisa because I don’t think Dean would ever be truly happy with someone completely outside the life). Not because Sam doesn’t love his brother, but because he *does* love his brother, and because he would want Dean to be happy, even though Dean and Sam’s ideas of what makes the other happy have always been a little bit screwed up.. but that’s a different story.

27. Least shippable character?

Probably Zachariah. God, could you imagine? And... maybe Alastair, but I’m sure there are fics out there that I do not want to think about.

#wonderwolfballoon #I cannot for the sake of my own sanity tag this #I don't need angry SPN fans coming at me #I hope the bold text at the top helps people to understand what's behind the cut

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