would you guys be mad if i drew star rail fanart

HOME

(All We Have: Part One)

Part Two

Colson x Female Reader

Summary: You and Colson are close friends and he invites you to move in to his house while you work on his record together

Word count: 1,580

Feels: Friendship Fluff for now

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, cursing, mentions of feeling depressed

Companion playlist:

Machine Gun Kelly - Home

Sia - Dressed in Black 

The Beatles - With a Little Help from My Friends

A/N: Throughout the series there will be changes to the timing of real life events like the pandemic, the release of certain songs etc. There's certain things I want to incorporate into the series, like particular events in MGKs life and lyrics from songs, so some stuff will get moved around to fit in to the story ✌️

______

It had been a long evening working in Colson’s home studio, The Boulevard, with him and the gang on the upcoming Tickets to my Downfall album. To say your schedule was busy was an understatement, but Colson had insisted you get involved with the new material after the success of your work together on Hotel Diablo.

Composing music was your main gig, you had an ear for melody and your passion for writing meant you always had lyrics swirling around your head. You had a penchant for dark and melancholy lyrics, finding music to be a source of therapy for you. It was something you and Colson had instantly bonded over. He'd bugged you to list some of the stuff you'd written that he'd know and you had gained his professional respect immediately.

He always kept a close eye on your work, ever the supportive friend and had laid claim to your piece ‘Glass House’ as soon as he'd heard it.

______

2019

You were sitting crossed legged on the sofa in your lounge, gently strumming your guitar and gazing off into space and mumbling to yourself, as you worked out some lyrics in your head. Colson was lying on the floor by your feet, scrolling through his phone with earphones in, a blunt in his hand that he occasionally passed up to you. This was a common set up, you found it easier to write in the peace and quiet and Colson has gradually started hanging out at your place more when he needed to focus on his own writing.

"All alone in the glass house, lie awake til the sun's out, pink sky when you come down…"

"Throw me in the damn flames, Bury me in gold chains, throw me in the damn flames…"

You'd started singing out loud, occasionally stopping to scribble down lyrics and make adjustments, not noticing that Colson had removed his earbuds to listen to you

" Dude, that's hard, like, beautiful… " His comment made you jump slightly, you hadn't seen him propping himself up on his elbows, watching you intently "Sing that last bit again"

You blushed slightly, his opinion was always important to you, and started singing. He muttered to himself as you did, then pointed at you "Again!"

Letting out a little laugh and rolling your eyes, you sang again

"Throw me in the damn flames, bury me in gold chains, throw me in the damn flames"

Colson's voice met yours at the end of the line, rapping softly "I'm waiting on the rain to come and wash it all away"

You locked eyes, smiling and he sat upright. "Dude, Im'a need that hook! That spoke to me right there, I've think got something for it that I've been stuck on"

He looked so excited, your heart did a little flip. You'd seen that writing this album had taken it out of him, he'd been digging deep and really going through it emotionally. You could tell it was going to be raw and special from what you'd heard already.

He sat forward and moved the guitar from your lap so he could lean his arms on your knees and looked up at you shooting you puppy dog eyes with those baby blues "Pretty please Y/N"

You laughed and ruffled his hair, "Anything for you Col" Honestly, it'd be an honour to be part of such a personal project, you thought

He wrapped his arms round you and squeezed,

"You're a legend, kid. Get a sample recorded and send it to me!" He grabbed your guitar off the sofa and whipped back around, strumming a few chords as he carried on talking with his back to you, leaning against the sofa "This is gonna be fire, you always just hit the nail on the head, I swear it's like you're in my head sometimes"

You smiled, seeing the wave of motivation that had struck your friend. You felt so lucky to have a friend who was not only so inspiring, but one who 'got it', who understood that music was a form of release. Someone who recognised that it was important to feel these things, rather than encourage you to push dark thoughts away with toxic positivity.

He’d pushed to use your original samples on his record, but as much as you loved writing and singing, you were a behind the scenes kind of gal which had always suited you just fine. Naomi, a mutual friend of you both, came onboard to record them with him. A decision that turned out to be golden… 'Death in my Pocket' would be born not long after, with Naomi doing your lyrics such beautiful justice yet again, perfectly pairing with Colson's emotional rapping.

______

From then on Colson had kept you close to his recording. You'd been helping here and there with composition and notation, but your production skills were what was taking centre stage during the most recent sessions. You had a long list of projects you were working through, leaving you chained to your equipment most days and nights anyway so throwing more music into your workload didn't seem like much of a big deal. In all honesty, the chaos of Colson’s studio and the revolving door of personalities that were in and out constantly, made it one of the most fun places to be. You loved what you did for a living and it never really felt like work Even though the guys were a real handful at times, you kind of enjoyed being the studio 'Mami' as they often affectionately referred to you

Everything had wrapped up for the evening and the guys had migrated back into the house. You could hear from the raucous that the drinks must have started flowing freely. You were saving your work and packing up your stuff when Colson bursts back into the studio and throws himself in a chair, spinning it around with his arms in the air.

"You staying for drinks Y/N?" he grins at you, clearly hyper and in party mode

You let out a big sigh "Urgh, I'd love to but I have an early start tomorrow. I finally managed to get an apartment viewing. I swear I've looked at a hundred places now, they get snapped up so quickly.. I've only got a few weeks left on my lease as well"

“Ah, that sucks kid” Colson empathises, spinning his chair again before an idea strikes him “Wait! Why don’t you move in here for a bit until you find a place? The guest room is pretty much your room anyway, the amount you crash here”

You laugh “This is true, that mattress is so much better than mine! Aw Col, that would honestly be so helpful, the stress of finding a place when I’m this busy is killing me. I don't know… You sure the guys won’t mind?”

Colson scoffs “Why would they mind? You practically live here anyway” he teases “I’m sure they’ll be just as stoked as I am at the thought of you joining the madhouse for a while”

Before you have a chance to respond, he stands up and throws his arms around you, squashing you into him tightly “That’s it decided Roomie. Another song in the bag and a new housemate, plenty to celebrate tonight!”

Wriggling out of his tight grasp, you laugh and in a deep voice shout “let’s goooooo” mocking his signature catchphrase. He flips you his middle finger and says “Kitchen, now”

Once you’re in the kitchen, Colson heads to get you a drink and grabs one himself. Appearing back at your side, he passes you your beer and then shouts out to the rest of the group,

“YO, meet our latest housemate, Y/N is moving in. LET’S FUCKING GOOOOO”

Everyone in the kitchen lets out a big cheer, clearly pleased as he said they would be. Colson bends down and picks you up, swinging you around in a circle, spilling your drinks all over the both of you as you shout his name in mock annoyance, between giggles.

“I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for” Rook laughs, clinking his drink against your now empty beer bottle once your feet are back on the floor

“It’ll be good to have another pair of hands around here, looking after you lot” Ashleigh chimes in, laughing and slapping Slim away as he pulls her hood up over her head, covering her eyes

It had been 5 years since you'd made the decision to move to LA, barely knowing a soul. You'd worked several jobs, jumped from place to place, worked your ass off to catch your break in the music business, sometimes feeling like the grind would never get you anywhere.

There had been times where you felt like you couldn't carry on, aching from trying to keep pace. The dream had felt like it was turning into a nightmare, as you tried to make ends meet, feeling so lonely in this enormous city.. but eventually you'd made these amazing friends who made you feel so safe and loved.

Now, there were times you had to pinch yourself just to make sure it was all real.

As you shake off some of the beer that's dripping from your hands, you look around the kitchen. Taking in the crazy, loveable bunch before you, your new housemates, you are filled with gratitude. You finally felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be…

Home.

______

❌❌ Lace up!

Ch. 4

18 + Minors DNI Please Check Rules Before You Follow

Pairing: Tomura Shigaraki x fem!Reader (brief reference to Dabi x Hawks)

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: smut, allusion to nausea (once), brief sacrilegious language (dabi), mentions of alcohol (dabi), mentions of smoking (dabi), dabi is just a whole warning of his own, gender neutral pronouns for reader, fem cause they're called a woman as an insult, Shiggy is an asshole, grinding, degradation,

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6

Summary: In which a project is completed and a new one begins

AO3 Mirror

Taglist: @dillybuggg (shoot me an ask if you want to be tagged)

Your project was almost complete.

In some ways, it sort of felt like the end of an era. To Tomura, who was a creature of habit by nature, it was doubly strange to imagine no longer spending hours a few days each week locked away in your little study room with you bugging him to teach you simple html and him not-so-discreetly sniffing your hair.

He still hadn’t asked you out or whatever he’d been trying to do, much to Dabi’s chagrin. And because of this, Tomura was consistently plagued with the feeling of time running out.

You were supposed to meet today for probably the last time seeing as the presentation was coming up at the end of the week. He knew it was now or never at this point. If he didn’t fucking say something now, he never would and then he’d have to live with the same his roommate wouldn’t let him live down.

So instead of heading directly to the library after class, Tomura took the old route back to his apartment and shot you a quick text—praying to the fucking boner gods, as Dabi called them, that you’d take the bait.

would you mind putting the finish touches on shit at my place?—

there’s some parts i gotta do from my desktop—

That wasn’t completely a lie. It was nicer working from his pc setup, but before he wouldn’t have let you come anywhere fucking near there. Not until he’d finally accepted that you’d wormed your way into his brain somehow and he couldn’t live another day not knowing what your tongue tasted like.

bitch (endearing):

—no problem

—what’s your address?

Tomura’s heart fucking pounded mercilessly against the bony prison of his ribs. It wasn’t like he was a stranger to some good old fashioned anxiety, but he’d never felt a strange stirring in his stomach quite like this. Like he might puke, but in a good way.

He quickly sent back his street and apartment number, and waited on the corner until you texted back that you’d be there in an hour before he rushed inside.

“What the hell are you doing, creep?!” Dabi snapped at him when he burst through the door and yeeted his backpack onto the kitchen table.

Tomura didn’t answer, just made a beeline for the bathroom and slammed the door. He doused himself in record time, unbothered by the hot water causing red, patchy flare ups to bloom over his skin. He was almost disgusted with himself for putting in this much effort for someone like you. Someone being definitely kind of a slut if the way you dressed was a good indicator. But he just kept thinking about the way your hair or skin smelled so goddamn good when you leaned in close and he wanted you to be obsessed with him in the same way. Wanted you to want to bury your face in his neck and breath him in.

When he stumbled out into the hall moments later, towel drying his hair roughly, Dabi was taking a shot over the sink.

He looked at Tomura like hell had frozen over.

“Two showers in like a month?” he mused, sucking his teeth as the alcohol slid down his throat. “What’s the occasion? The fucking, second coming of Christ?”

“Well the bitch is coming over so…”

“Oh, that is a fucking miracle,” Dabi whistled and knocked back a second shot.

Tomura glared, stepping into his room and tossing his towel aside to tug on his nicest pair of black joggers and t-shirt that gapped a bit at the front, showing off a large expanse of his chest. It made him a bit nervous even just looking at his reflection but you definitely stared the few times he’d taken off his hoodie while you were working, so the risk seemed worth the reward.

“Yeah, well you’re gonna have to piss off for the night,” Tomura shouted into the kitchen as Dabi sauntered over to lean against his doorframe.

“You know, I conveniently do have a dick appointment with my own bitch, but now I don’t want to go.”

His tone was teasing, eyes hooded and clearly enjoying how flustered Tomura was already before you’d even gotten here. Tomura moved to snatch another pillow and do battle but Dabi raised his hands up quickly in defeat.

“Oh no, no, I just fucking did my hair for this Keigo asshole you are not gonna ruin it with that petty shit,” he shot back and disappeared somewhere into his own room. “I’ll be out of your greasy ass hair don’t worry.”

Tomura seethed and bit back of reply of his hair for once not being greasy as hell, but the multiple cum stains—both his and his nasty fucking roommates—marring the comforter caught his eye.

“Ugh,” he mumbled and balled the whole thing up, shoving it under the bed and spreading out one of his merch blankets from that manga you both liked.

Hopefully you wouldn’t think that was too cringey, but he had definitely seen your room plastered with merch in the background of your social media profiles which he totally did not stalk at all and maybe jerk off to on occasion.

The rest of his room was quickly cleared by a combination of shoving random crap into his closet and filling up their recycling bin to the brim with empty energy drink cans. He tackled the kitchen next which wasn’t as hard as he’d expected. Neither he nor Dabi cooked all that frequently, so the dishes weren’t an issue and the vague, lingering smell of whatever the fuck Dabi had been smoking early was cleared out a bit by leaving the balcony door ajar.

He checked the time on his phone obsessively, about ready to pound on Dabi’s door and throw him out on the step when the man in question emerged on his own—black platform boots donned with his ass hugging ripped jeans and a loose tank top.

He had on fucking eyeliner.

God and he thought Tomura was being desperate.

“What? Wishing you’d locked this down first?” Dabi sneered, grabbing his jacket from the rack and shoulder checking Tomura on his way to the door.

“I—” he stammered for a second, bristling as Dabi towered over him a bit in those fucking boots. “No, asshole, just leave before they get here.”

But at the exact moment that Dabi rolled his eyes and flung open the door, Tomura’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Looking up in mingled horror and embarrassment, he watched the door hit the wall and reveal you, a little more casually dressed than usual looking stunned as Dabi grinned down at you with pierced lips.

“Hi, I’m-” you started but Tomura’s live-in nightmare cut you off.

“Oh I know who you are, dollface,” Dabi wiggled his fucking eyebrows at you, clearly playing up the dramatics as much as possible to a degree even Tomura didn’t think he could pull off. “Name’s Dabi—”

“Uh, yeah and he was just leaving,” Tomura hissed and placed his shoulder firmly in the center of his roommate’s back, launching him onto the welcome mat as you side-stepped through the door.

“Yeah, see ya later creep,” he fucking winked as the door slammed shut in his face.

Tomura��s cheeks burned in the following silence which was only broken by your quiet chuckle. He noticed you did that a lot. Laughed at things without even thinking about whether it would sound weird.

“He seems like a lot,” you mumbled and glanced around at the living room/kitchen/foyer of his tiny apartment.

“Yeah…”

He thought he might feel the same sort of disturbance he usually did when Dabi brought his dates home but you seemed to fit easily into the space, unobtrusive but bright against the dingy walls.

“So, should we get to it?” you asked with a wry smile, spinning to face him and silhouetted by the sun set filtering in past the balcony.

He may not have felt the usual discomfort of intruders in his space, but his hands shook where he clutched at his thighs nonetheless. And just like always, if you noticed the bunched up fabric and the not so slight tremor in his bony arms, you didn’t say a thing about it.

You looked so good propped up on his bed, back against the wall and legs dangling off the sides as the now strangely comforting sound of your furious typing filled his room. It had been a few hours now, and Dabi had been true to his word, seemingly gone until tomorrow morning. The room was illuminated only by your screens and his small desk lamp that lit up your legs like a stage spot light.

His mind fogged over more than once with the fantasy of laying in between them.

“I just shared the final bit of script,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence.

The notification pinged at the top of his screen and he hummed in acknowledgement, plugging in your last pieces of text and saving the program.

And just like that.

It was over.

“I think we’re done,” Tomura whispered.

He didn’t really mean to say it so softly, but it felt strange to talk at full volume so he rasped out the words, knowing you wouldn’t care how shitty his voice sounded.

There was a creak and soft footsteps behind him as you shuffled off the bed and over to his desk. Your hands rested way too close to his shoulders than necessary while you leaned over his chair to look at the finished product.

It was still a little rough around the edges but Tomura found himself feeling a swell of satisfaction now that it was complete. All things considered, you’d come up with a pretty damn good concept and he liked knowing he played a role in helping it come to fruition.

The piece you picked was weird as shit. Some political satire about eating babies, lots of juxtaposition about the private life versus the public self and some bullshit rants on the nature of humanity blah blah blah.

It actually reminded him of you a little bit, now that he thought about it as he took advantage of you position to stare intently at your eyes scanning the screen. Not the eating babies thing, but the whole private self stuff.

In the half semester he’d spent locked away with you in quiet rooms and noisy, dimly lit basements, he could see such a stark contrast between the you he’d known from class all those weeks ago and the you currently sighing in relief over his shoulder.

Softer, more real—not so Stacy, bimbo, pick me slut like he’d always imagined you to be.

“Damn, we did it my guy,” you nodded, clearly impressed with yourself and him as well, which had Tomura’s chest puffing out just a bit under the attention. “I could fucking kiss you, I thought we’d never get it done.”

You turned to him, eyes closed in a half laugh but Tomura was so far from laughing. Cause you were really, really fucking close and he could smell you again and you’d been chewing that fucking gum cause it was hot on your breath. He knew, he really did, that you were kidding, that this was just a thing people said when they were relieved but he couldn’t help the weird, deer in the headlights stare that his face froze in.

Blinking, you raised your eyebrows at him questioningly when he didn’t make some crude comment about your chest brushing against his arm or shrug you off like he might have before.

And then you got this knowing, little mischievous look that reminds him far too much of Dabi for a split second before you pressed your face just an inch closer.

His eyes flicked down instinctively to your lips and his face burned when realized there was no way you didn’t see how he looked at you. Shockingly, despite the churning in his gut and the shaking in his legs, Tomura leaned forward just a bit too, working up enough scant courage to maybe close the gap. But then you started laughing?

It bubbled up quietly in your chest, more of a giggle than anything else.

You were laughing and shaking your head and his stomach fucking dropped to the ground and his face was on fire cause you were laughing and that meant he’d been fucking played like a goddamn fiddle but—

But then you gave him this faint smile and you weren't laughing anymore, because you were kissing him.

You were fucking kissing him.

Which, while yes he had set out to have this be the end goal of the night, he hadn’t actually believed it would ever happen. He’d never felt it in his bones like he thought he was supposed to.

And holy shit your lips were so soft??

So soft and smooth with no cool, sharp metal poking or pulling at the splits on his. It was like fucking crack, or what he imagined crack might be like with the way your mouth just glided against his. It was so easy to follow you, which was good cause he didn’t have a goddamn clue what he was doing for the most part. But you made it feel simple, and you even ran your tongue over the little scar that bisected his lips in this painfully adorable way that had Tomura pitching a tent in his pants like lightning.

God and when you pulled back and just enough to look at him again:

It was like every one of those cutesy, shojo manga suddenly made sense. The panels where the main characters look at each other and flowers bloom off the fucking page while they stare with those dark, hungry eyes—

Yeah.

Yeah he got it now.

And he was gonna ride that wave while he had it. So Tomura steeled himself and surged forward, grabbing both your arms and smashing his face much less gracefully against yours. He stood and you straightened with him, that same half giggle slipping out in the gaps where your lips parted on his as he clacked your teeth together and pulled back at the jarring sting.

“Eager are we?” you had that stupid smile on your face again but he honestly didn’t care anymore if it was an act or if your face really just looked like that with no fucking ulterior motive.

“Shut up,” he muttered, trying to catch your lips again and you mercifully let him.

Tomura nearly fucking came in his pants when you licked into his mouth and oh fucking god he really could taste the gum and that loud ass shit you were always drinking. Dabi was right, this was a fucking miracle.

Did other people always taste this good or was it just you?

He responded enthusiastically to say the least, sucking your tongue into his mouth and letting out a choked little noise when you prodded the back of his teeth. The movement of your legs, pulling him back towards the bed went mostly unnoticed until he felt himself tipping forward, landing with a thump on top of you as you both tumbled onto his mattress.

Tomura’s lips wondered boldly down your throat, smelling the soap or lotion or whatever the hell made you so fucking baby smooth compared to him and he actually growled into your nape when you laughed again.

“God, what the fuck is so funny?” he sounded muffled from where he was tonguing at the fleshy joining of your neck and shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry,” you pressed your lips against the peeling crown of his head and that alone made up for the interruption, “I’m just basking in the glory of being right.”

“About?” Tomura nipped at your skin once before lifting his chin to rest on your sternum.

“I just always thought you were sorta into me, but it was hard to tell cause you’re so quiet about that kinda thing.”

“....oh,” he didn’t really have an argument for that so he didn’t try to fight you.

“Did you think I didn’t notice all the convenient excuses to touch me or like the fact that you’re mean as shit to everyone else but me?" you asked not unkindly as you stroked a hand through his hair, frizzy from being left to air dry. “I also got the vibes you thought I was a slut anyway and it wasn’t super clear if that was a turn on or not.”

He cringed a bit at the blatant way you acknowledged all ruder inner monologues about your character.

“Well, I did a bit initially,” Tomura glanced off to the side, suddenly finding the chipping paint much more fascinating. God he really wanted to get back to the good stuff. “But I don’t now…”

“Oh no,” you cupped his face, running a thumb against the cracked skin on his cheeks and didn’t cringe when the drying skin flaked onto your shirt, “that was a pretty astute assumption.”

“Uh, what?”

He felt his draw drop and you dipped your thumb past his front row of teeth, toying with the pooling saliva.

“All the better for you though,” you continued dragging his chest against yours so he could feel your nipples through his shirt, “cause that just means I know how to show you a good time, and I get the feeling you’ve never had that happen before.”

You punctuated your words with roll of your hips against the fucking iron rod in his pants. The noise that left Tomura was inhuman.

He thought back to the day you got partnered with him. How he thought it would be a fucking nightmare and Tomura wanted to let the record show that he officially retracted that statement. This was in no uncertain terms, actually a wet dream come true and he was sure Dabi would never fucking believe him unless he walked through the door right now.

“That works,” he stuttered around the finger in his mouth and you reared up to wrap your legs around his waist.

Your lips found his again and he hummed in approval only cut off as you rolled so he was laying back and looking up. When you pulled back, he shivered at the way you raked your nails over his chest.

“So, you gonna tell me how much of a disgusting whore you think I am?”

Peace: Would It Be Enough?

Previous: In Secret 

Pairing: Jungkook X Reader

Genre: Smut/ Angst / Slice of Life

Rating: NC17

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: Swearing, P-V Sex, Consensual Sex, Making Love, Forgiveness, Redemption, Vaginal Fingering 

Summary: The morning after. 

Listening: peace by Taylor Swift 

Peace Master List

          There’s a moment when you first wake up when the weight of the world, the weight of the day, doesn’t overwhelm you. Your to-do list waits, your mind is slowly waking itself and remembering whatever nightmare you’ve left for yourself to deal with. But you know it’s coming. As you woke up that morning, that sinking feeling engulfed you before you opened your eyes. Jack Antonoff was right, but your dread wasn’t waiting by your bed, it was thriving within you.

          Rolling over, you checked the clock. 10AM on a Saturday is a fine time to wake up, but as you do, the flood of thoughts crashed over you. The dryness of your skin from the salty tears made you wince, and as you padded to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee, you’re confronted with three realities, and leaning against your kitchen counter, you recount them to yourself.

·      First, you told him you couldn’t look at him anymore.

·      Second, he was verbally harassed last night, and you did nothing

·      Third, you’re not enough

·      You’re not enough to handle this

·      You’re not enough to be by his side

·      You’re just…

The third sent you reeling, but the second kept nagging at you like a mosquito bite in the middle of your back. It’s persistent itch slowly driving you mad.

           You walked yourself through the events of the night, through Jungkook’s response, through your own. You yelled, you fucking hated yelling, it had no place in your relationship… The guys had been there, they’d tried to ration… Jungkook tried to… But he didn’t… You didn’t … It’s all coming back, the bits and pieces of the hurt you hurled at him, your Jungkook, your love, the man you’d give every wild you had to… the father of your child… And here you were, sipping coffee, trying to organize your thoughts into something cohesive to make up or make sense of the hurt you hurled at him.

           You took to your phone to open Spotify and saw his plentiful texts, sent throughout the night… single lines of longing trying to reach you.

Jagi, I’m just checking in. I love you.

Baby, I hope you get some sleep. I love you.

I love you.

Our love isn’t for show… please

Love you, so much

           You stared, your thoughts being overwhelmed by the profound sadness you felt towards him, because of him. With tears in your eyes, you moved to your bathroom, hot water scalding your skin as it came cascading down around you.

           Jungkook awoke, but if he was honest, he didn’t really sleep. Wedged between a wall and Ho-Seok, having not planned to stay with the members at all, he found himself uncomfortable, his mind stuck on the image of you, telling him you couldn’t look at him. You, walking away from him, telling him not to follow you or talk to you. You… The texts he sent left unanswered. His pleas to you to talk to him, to say anything, to say that you loved him too… unreciprocated.

           He carefully climbed out of bed around 9AM, tiptoeing into the gym, trying to work out his frustration on the treadmill.

One mile.

Two miles.

Three miles.

          As he ran, he replayed the events in his head. He went to the bathroom, leaving you with a guard nearby and taking one with him. He came back and saw that man circling you, a vulture preying on a seemingly isolated fledgling. Jungkook approached, he watched the man attack, trying to get anything from you, and you, stunning in your skintight black jeans, moto jacket draping over your shoulders, studded booties protecting your feet… Jungkook tried to protect you. You, the object of his desires, you, your dazzling smile and friendly demeanor, a mere kill to that man. But the man wasn’t after you, he was after Jungkook. If one prey was left alone, the herd was nearby, and Jungkook was proof of that.His eyes became bugged as he watched Jungkook step in front of you, Jungkook, nearly six feet and pure muscle, shirt unbuttoned dangerously low, chest seemingly smooth. Jungkook, tattooed covered hand, rings absently adorning digits, undercut fresh, hair slightly pulled back, glowering over him.

          Jungkook was the vulture, and weak prey does what it can to escape the predator, it distracts and deflects.

          Jungkook wanted to be the threat, he wanted to use his height and physique as a way to protect you from that man. But what you hadn’t accounted for was the man’s mouth, his beliefs, his disgust that you would be dating someone so, Asian. It didn’t matter if Jungkook could beat the shit out of him, it didn’t matter that he could grind seeds in his palms or use his falsetto after dancing nonstop for three minutes. It didn’t matter, because in that moment, when the man realized that you belonged to Jungkook, his xenophobia and ignorance raged more powerfully than Jungkook’s fists ever could. Jungkook knew it, as the man’s eyes drifted between you… He knew it would come to blows.

          Stepping off the treadmill, sweat soaking his clothing, he picked up his phone. No calls. No texts. No Instagram updates. No tweets. You’d gone to ground, and he was desperate to hear from you. He dialed, knowing full well you wouldn’t answer. You never spoke before you were ready, you never made a decision that wasn’t thought out… He knew you well enough to know you’d be processing, but he needed you to know he was still there, he was still so close… A call, a text, and he’d be at your door.

          You sat still as your phone rang, his name and ID flashing… A photo Taehyung had taken on your last trip to Korea... A rainy day spent in sweats and watching your favorite movies, trying to show them films that were important to you. Subtitles on, and when the situation called for it, Namjoon translating. Jungkook had fallen asleep, his head resting on a pillow in your lap, fingers intertwined with yours. You sat slowly raking your fingers through his hair, smiling as you watched the film. The moment was too cute to pass up, and Taehyung snapped the pic. You watched it fade to black, and he listened as it rang and rang.

          “Noona, please, please talk to me. I love you; I love you so much and I, just please call me.”

          He picked up the weights, heavier than he needed, hand still hurting from the punch, and became determined to burn himself out before he could dare to think about your accusations.

          You’ve sat with him in the trenches, been there for his biggest hits and greatest wins. But you weren’t convinced he’d stand by your side. You didn’t believe he’d die for you, you didn’t believe that he’d take a bullet for you, to protect your honor, to defend his own he’d… He’d die for you, on the front page, on national television. He’d give you anything you wanted, everything you wanted, but would it be enough?

          Dropping the weights, mind spent, Jungkook ambled throughout the Airbnb, showering, forcing himself to eat, his bandmates asking if he was okay.

          “I still haven’t heard from her,” He whispered.

          “She’s safe, she’s at home,” Namjoon said, watching his maknae with sympathetic eyes.

          “I know,” He responded, eyes trained on the counter. He felt uncomfortable standing with his brothers in the spot where she had walked out on him, where she’d lay bare her fears and insecurities. It felt wrong, like the place should be torn down, burned, never to be built upon again. Anything to erase the memory.

          “She hasn’t said anything to us either,” Taehyung added, wrapping an arm around Jungkook.

          “Is that supposed to make him feel better?” Yoongi asked, making his way through the kitchen to grab an apple.

          “She isn’t just icing him out,” Taehyung clarified.

          “What are you going to say to her?” Yoongi questioned.

          “I don’t really want to talk about this,” Jungkook said, eyes finally moving to look at his bandmates. “I just, I just want to talk to her.” He stood, tears starting to form again and moved towards the backyard. As he pressed into the grass, his phone buzzed.

Come over please

           Jungkook bounded from the car to your front door, knocking frantically, enthusiastically, begging for entrance into your home. You approached slowly, a deep breath being drawn as you unlocked the door and stepped back, letting Jungkook slowly step over the threshold.

           “Baby, I-” He was cut off by your lips, hands reaching to pull him too you, your lips meeting in the middle. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close. His wet hair brushed your cheeks as you moved your arms to wrap around his neck, fingers instinctively playing with the hair at the nape. He growled lightly, bottom lip between his teeth, and started to move you, slowly, through the living room and down the hallway of your bungalow to your bedroom. Your hands moved down his clothed shoulders before slowly reaching up underneath his sweatshirt to rest on his bare chest, and as you pulled away for air, he deftly slid it over his head and tossed into a pile.

           “I want you,” You whispered, his hands gripping your hips, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. You slowly opened your eyes, looking through your lashes at him.

           “I need you,” He whispered, the intensity in your gaze doubling as he stared. “Always, you.”

           You brought him onto the bed swiftly, lips connecting as he nestled himself between your thighs.

           “I love you,” You said as his hands began to tug at your shirt, carefully guiding it off your frame. “So much.”

           “I love you,” Jungkook said, his gaze staying with yours as he slipped his hand down the front of your leggings, splitting your lips open and taking a tentative stroke.

           “Take them off,” You said, arm covering your eyes, giving into the feeling of him, Jungkook, Golden Maknae, lover.

           He did as instructed, slowly spreading your legs, revealing yourself to him, your arousal clear and glistening, beckoning him to it. He wasted no time, no build up, no longing strokes or languid caresses. He wanted you, and he wanted you now.

           Wrapping his lips around your sensitive bud, he began to suck, alternating slow gentle pulls with sharper, harsher puckers. He held your thighs down, strong hands splaying across the fat of your thighs, his favorite thighs, keeping you firmly pressed into the mattress.

           Having sex with Jungkook was either one of three things:

1.     Slow and passionate

2.     Rough and overwhelming

3.     Gentle and giving

           It had taken you two a while to find your stride, sexually. One of you was experienced, the other lacking, and finding a common ground was challenging, except for the fact that you both so desperately wanted one another. You’d waited a decent amount of time, in your opinion, before having sex. You’d been burned before, and sex was something you wanted to share with someone you cared about, who was invested in whatever you were building together. Jungkook had understood and felt similarly. Your aligning star signs, and a particularly tight pair of jeans and a too low-cut top had pushed things over the edge, and you’d consummated your relationship in your house, first in the bedroom, then in the kitchen, and finally, the floor in front of the fireplace.

           Jungkook continued to attend to your clit, and when he felt you getting close, slipped two fingers inside, coaxing your walls to embrace him. The stretch, unwelcome at first, was exactly what you needed. Your orgasm crashed down, overwhelming you as a new batch of tears started to fall. You tried to maintain composure, the pleasure outweighing the guilt and pain. If not for yourself, for Jungkook. He noticed your change in demeanor, and slowly kissed up your body, straddling your waist and moving your hands from your eyes.

           “Hey, noona,” He whispered, lowering his lips to kiss your tears. You turned your head, catching his lips as your hand slipped between you, palming his member through his sweats. He moaned greedily, hips involuntarily rutting at your touch.

           “Jungkook,” You whispered against his lips. He slid off of you and stood, tossing his sweats and briefs into the same pile of clothes he’d tossed his sweatshirt.

           “How do you-

           “Just, like this,” You said, propped up on your elbows, staring at his naked form. You wanted to feel close, a part of him, like you’d felt the last time you’d made love. Yes, made love was the term Jungkook preferred. Sex could be, impersonal, emotionless, but making love… a phrase perfectly depicting what it was: love shared. You could tell from the glint in his eyes, the tears still spilling from your eyes, that the love making would be gentle and passionate, your favorite kind.

           Jungkook nodded, moving back between your open and willing legs, hand stroking himself once, twice, before he angled his hips and gently pressed into you. Moans swirled as the sound of his flesh against yours echoed off the walls, your tears mixing with sweat as he slowly thrust in and out of you. Your eyes locked on his as he slid a hand between you, teasing you towards your second orgasm as he edged closer and closer to his first.

           You wished it could be like this forever. The passion and heat between you hadn’t lessened in the years you’d been together, distance hadn’t made your wanting disappear, it only intensified. As you came down from your respective highs, Jungkook nipped at the skin on your shoulder, leaving a small love bite.

          “I love you,” you whispered, eyes closed tight, unwilling to look at him.

          “I know, noona, I know,” He whispered, eyes trained on your face. “Look at me,” His voice was gentle, an ask, not a demand.

          You opened your eyes, tears slipping down your temples, soaking your hair and absorbing into the pillows. Silently, Jungkook pressed his lips to yours before rising. He disappeared into the kitchen, washing his hands before bringing you a glass of water, waiting patiently for you to return from the bathroom before handing it to you. Sipping silently, you pulled him into the bathroom and into the shower.

          You’d both showered independently that morning, washing away your transgressions and anxieties from the night before. In the afternoon sunlight, the water brought you two together. As you washed each other, silence sitting in the atmosphere like low clouds, ridding themselves of the last few drops from the storm that had just raged.

          Slipping into clean clothes, pulling him to you again, you tumbled into your bed, limbs intertwined as your head rested on his chest, rising slowly with his breathing. The exhaustion from the fight, the anger, the fear, coupled with the exhaustion of making love, and the comfort of a lovers embrace lulled you both to sleep, only awakening when Jungkook’s phone rang.

          Groggily he answered, speaking swiftly in Korean.

          “The guys want to know if we want to go to dinner with them,” He said, glancing down at your still form.

          “Can we just stay in?” You asked, sleep still heavy in your body.

          “Of course we can,” He said standing. He stepped into the hallway; his voice still hushed as he spoke to whomever called him. You tried to open your eyes, to will the drowsiness away, and slowly it did. You opened your eyes to a setting sun, and Jungkook leaning against the doorframe, sweats low on his hips, back bare.

          Somewhere in his conversation he became animated, and you knew he could paint dreamscapes if he wanted.

          “Jungkook?” You said, pulling his attention from his phone call. He looked at you and smiled softly before saying his goodbyes.

          “Yes love?”

          “I, I’m sorry,” You said, fidgeting with the skin on your thumb.

          “I’m sorry too,” He offered, sitting on the bed, staring at you.

          “I’m so sorry for everything, for yelling at you, for being so harsh and cold, and, and”  

          His tattooed hand reached out to grab yours, a willing peace offering.

          “I’m sorry I minimized your pain,” You looked at him. “I, I ignored it. I latched onto the one thing I could control, and that was what the world could see of me. I couldn’t register your hurt because I don’t know how to fix it or make it better or make people less hateful... so I got angry because our privacy is something I can navigate. I can manage if someone sees us together, or Instagram posts or twitter comments. That I can do, but last night,” You shook your head, trying to block the memories from invading. “I shut out your feelings, Jungkook, I didn’t acknowledge what you were going through, and I’m so so sorry,” Your voice cracked as you uttered your apology. Jungkook was quick to move to you, pulling you against him, your fresh tears falling on his bare chest.

          “I don’t know what it’s like to experience that level of racism and hatred. I know microaggressions, I’ve fielded a million. I know in America we put Asian Americans in internment camps, we passed laws that literally wouldn’t allow them to become citizens, or enter our country, we blamed them for COVID and our stock market tanking... We fetishize and demean and make light of thousands of years of abuse. I’ve experienced my own racism, and colorism, but I’ve never ... I hate that you were hurt. I hate that someone could spew that vile, repugnant bull shit at you. I hate that I couldn’t do anything to protect you. I hate that I was so insensitive. I love you, Jungkook. I’ll give you a son, I’ll give you my best, I’ll die for you in secret, in public, I don’t care… But Jungkook, I don’t know if it will be enough?”

          Your eyebrows knitted together as you stared at him. Him, the Golden Maknae, the love of your life, the man of your dreams.

          “I love you,” Jungkook said, holding your gaze. “I love you. I want you… So, what if you can’t bring me peace? What does that even mean? Of course, you are enough because I say you are, because you say you are. You are enough and so much more,” Jungkook broke as your joined vulnerability tore down any remaining emotional walls or self-preservation you’d put up.

          You’d had a fight, a really-bad-could-end-everything fight. Neither of you were sure what would happen, what Bang and Big Hit would want from you, whether or not swinging for the fences was going to result in a low batting average or the record for homers in a relationships timeline. Neither of you cared. The ever-present question of whether either of you was enough for the other would eat away at you, dissipating only when lips touched, I love you’s exchanged, promises of forever etched on your hearts. You could be enough for one another… until he breaks into a million pieces and the shattered edges glisten with blood… then what?

Next: Clowns to the West

A Quiet Moment

Pairing: Clementine x Louis

Word Count: 2.5K

Summary: During her monthly hair cut, Clem and Louis both confide in each other about their deepest feelings.

A/N: I started this at around 12:50 am and finished it at 4 am (the power of a can of coke before lmao) buutttt it’s all for @castle-javier HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAISY!!!!!!! YOU’RE ALWAYS LISTENING TO MY RAMBLES AND DUMB HEADCANONS GO WISH HER THE BESTEST BIRTHDAY <3<3<3 I LUV YOU 

-

"Oh Looouis," That devilish yet melodic tune meant only one thing and both of them knew it. Louis glanced up from his book, raising a brow at this rare case of forwardness from her. "I need your help." There it was. Clementine knew when to turn on the charm and how to talk in such a delicate way that turned Louis into mush.

He closed the novel he was reading, wasn't captivating to begin with. He had read over the same page three times now, always losing himself to a stray thought. Besides, a task with Clementine is a more fruitful way to spend the day. "Anything for you my darling. What is it?"

Clem slowly unveiled her hands, revealing a tarnished pair of scissors. "Could you please cut my hair?" Her teeth were bared in the widest grin he had seen to date, puppy dog eyes in full effect.

"You know I can't say no to a face like that." And what a task this was! Clem usually cut her own hair, swearing every few minutes when she cut a piece too short, yet somehow she always came out of the bathroom looking as adorable as ever.

She tossed him the scissors before retreating back to the bathroom, immediately going back to inspecting her hair in the mirror, pulling at a stray curl. Clem didn't even want to consider how long it had been since she had last used shampoo and conditioner. Too long that was certain. Dirty hair was the norm. And it still smelled after all these years. Whoopee.

Louis interrupted the rare vanity he witnessed, leaning against the door in his typical nonchalant manner. Function over fashion for Clem, that was always the way. Seeing her fiddle with flat curls and knots pulled at his heart. At the end of the day she was still a young girl who wanted a decent haircut. "You ready for this?"

Clementines' hand clenched unknowingly, her teeth near the point of grinding. "Just...be careful. The last person who cut my hair fucked it up." She sat down on the rickety toilet seat, eyes focused on the mirror and definitely not on how Louis was wildly swinging the scissors around his finger.

"I'm a natural, been doing my own since I was a kid!" Louis ran his free hand through his dreads, even Clem had to admit they looked good and somewhat healthy. "Now trust the process. You asked me for help, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah. Don't cut it too short, okay? I like tying it up." Clementine pulled out her hair tie, wincing at the unevenness of it all. Goddamnit Javi. The curls on the longer side were near untameable, reminding her of how she once looked. Smiling ever so faintly at the memory, looking like a boy was now the least of her concerns.

Louis bit his tongue in an attempt to not laugh at her scrunched face. "Pinky promise, you'll still be able to use your hair...thingy."

"You mean hair tie?"

Louis eventually took the plunge and snipped off the first tattered curl, watching it fall to the ground. No going back now. "Yeah that. I use to have one but it snapped, guess it couldn't contain my luscious locks."

A shiver ran across the back of her neck as the cold metal glided against her skin. "Yeah, I'm sure that was it. I have a spare you can borrow," She dug around her jacket pocket for the mangy thing, soon finding it hiding beneath a flower she had plucked earlier that day. "Here, still pretty stretchy after all these years."

Louis held his hand out steady as she slid it over his wrist, the once purple dye now tarnished by specks of blood, dirt and other substances Louis didn't want to know of. "Damn, you've had this for a long time."

"I got them right as everything started."

Louis eventually found his groove with the scissors, secretly wondering if Clem would stab him if he gave her a mohawk. Perhaps Farrah Fawcett hair? "Who gave them to you?"

Her delayed answer nudged at his sympathy, a clear cut sign that Clementine had fallen back into old memories. "Lilly did. She said they would help keep my hair out of my face while I slept."

Louis had stopped mid-cut, letting the answer sink in as his own tormented memories of that woman came at full speed. "Oh. You don't really talk about her."

"There's not much to talk about." She chose to focus on the rapidly growing pile of hair on the floor, gliding it around the smooth tiles with the tip of her boot. It would be a bitch to tidy later, but that was a future Clem problem.

They continued in silence, the only sound being the sharp cut of the scissors every few seconds as Louis took his time, choosing to focus on the task at hand rather than the shared trauma both had been dealt by Lilly. "Sometimes I wonder what she was like, before the child kidnapping thing. Was she always a sociopath?"

Clem let out a laugh that Louis knew was fake. "No, she was normal. I guess a little angry, but who wasn't? Her dad certainly didn't help."

"Her dad? What was he like?"

"We were all hiding in this drugstore and her dad, like the grade-A asshole he was, threatened a kid."

"Yikes." Seems like hurting kids ran in the family.

Her shoulders fell deeply, snippets of hair sliding off her shirt. "Yup, he thought the kid was bit. He wasn't, just scared, like everyone else. I miss him sometimes."

"Who? The dad?"

"Fuck no, the kid. We called him Duck, he was the only other kid I had to talk to." Even if all he talked about was dinosaurs and comic books, it was a nice distraction from the world outside the motor inn. Before everything began to crumble.

"Was he cool?" Louis dared to question further, treading carefully on what he knew were sacred memories. Stories Clem had never shared with him, or anyone. The only glimpses he had seen were the aftermaths of her nightmares, the faces of past ghosts coming back to haunt her.

She hummed over her answer. "I suppose, kinda annoying and loud. Very loud. I put a bug in his pillow."

Louis couldn't help but chuckle. "You did what now?"

"I put a bug in his pillow, just a little spider. I don't know why I did that."

"You would have been the perfect candidate for a troubled youth school."

She lightly punched his chest, unable to contain her smile. "Hey! I was a good kid."

He feigned the agony from the punch, clutching his t-shirt in a death grip. "Sure, cause good kids always leave bugs on pillows and punch their boyfriends."

"It was in his pillow for the record."

The silence was no longer heavy like it was before. This time light, breathable. A change of pace from how it began.

"Her dad died in a meat locker." Clementine pursed her lips together as the unsettling story began to spill out of her. She had never spoken about it before, to anyone, choosing to let those memories fester and hide.

"A what?"

"A place where you store meat. Some of us were trapped inside, he had a heart attack and to stop him from turning Lee..." Her words became the mere wave of a whisper as her breathing grew quicker. She was still there; in the meat locker, in the jewellery store, at Howe's, on the boat. Always there, always trapped, unable to get out.

Louis briefly stopped cutting her hair, giving her his full attention instead. "Lee did what?" Some small part of him was afraid of the answer.

"He held Lilly back as Kenny dropped a salt lick on his head." She said it so calmly, too calmly. As if it was just an occupational hazard, a little story you tell to strangers to pass the time.

The scissors nearly slipped from his grasp. "Holy shit."

"Yeah, not fun." It was the moment she realised her world had changed, now forever starved for help. There was no going back.

He thought of one final question, the one question whose truth terrified him more than the others. "How old were you?"

"Eight."

Louis didn't dare test his luck any further, his curiosity reaching its limit. She was right, he had no idea what people were capable of behind the school walls. The things she had seen, the things she was forced to live through...he wished he could take it all away. Replace her horrid memories with calmer ones.

There was always their purple house.

As her hair got shorter and shorter, he began to cut slower and slower, not wanting their brief time together to end. After this, it's back to the grim world. Back to the endless fight. He was so lost in concentration he hadn't noticed Clem staring blatantly at his reflection for the past few minutes. He wasn't the only curious cat in the room.

"Whatcha thinking about now?"

"Wondering where I can find purple paint. For our house." He chirped. Talking about this dream house always put them both in a better mood, despite the likelihood of them ever seeing it was slim to none. It was their safe haven, a world away from this one where they could do whatever and be whoever.

"Ah, right. I haven't been able to come across any. We might have to consider a different colour."

Louis nearly choked on the very prospect, his hands waving around violently in disbelief, despite wielding a sharp blade. "Never! I am building you that house and it's going to be purple."

"Why so set on purple?"

He slowed to a near crawl, pondering over his word choice. "Well, you said at the party purple was your dads favourite colour. Take it as a gift of good faith, I am dating his daughter after all."

Clem could only hope there was enough hair left to hide her burning ears. "He would like you." She whispered just for him, despite being alone.

"You think so?" The glee in his voice was obvious, his posture straightening up.

"If he didn't I'd make him. He had a pretty good singing voice, I'm sure you'd sing duets together, driving both me and my mom crazy." If this were a normal world that is. Perhaps they would go to high school together, go to the movies, skip class or whatever it was teenagers would do. Hiding from walkers would be replaced with games of tag, repeated bowls of rice would become pizza and endless junk food.

"You okay?"

Her fantasy world gone before her eyes just as quickly as it appeared, Clem ran a hand over her shadowed face, repressing the tears that always threatened her when she considered all that could have been. "I miss them."

"Sorry, shouldn't have brought them up." Louis kissed the top of her head, hoping it would soothe her subtle trembling. The original task of cutting her hair now gone from both their minds as they basked in this secret grief. A grief they both knew the other felt, grief for a world long gone from their grasp.

Her hand slid over the top of his, intertwining their fingers, her thumb tracing each line and callous present. Memorising everything about him. "No, it's fine. Really, I'm glad I can talk to you about them."

He squeezed her hand, letting this moment sink into his heart. It was moments like these he would turn to on his more difficult nights, where monsters pulled themselves out of every dark corner. She was a light, protecting him in more ways than she knew. "You wanna know a secret? Sometimes I'm thankful for the apocalypse."

"You're what now?"

"Think about it. You used to live in Georgia, we probably never would have met had you not needed to bounce between cities for survival," He spoke gently into her hair, never breaking away from her. "I know we've lost people, I've made plenty of mistakes, but if going through all that meant I got to meet you, you best believe I'd do it all again."

And there it was, a confession that completely destroyed and rescued both of them.

Clementine couldn't bear to look at him, for her own self-restraint lest she become a puddle of tears. Grabbing onto the lining of his coat, she pulled herself into his inviting arms, burying her head in the warm crook of his neck. "You always talk about how you're the lucky one," Swallowing the strong lump within her throat, she bore her heart to him. "You may not have been the one to drag me out of that car crash, but you saved me that day and continue to every day since. It's always been the other way around."

His words got caught somewhere between his heart and his mouth, an amalgamation of thoughts moulding together in his mind. He stood there, unsure of when he had dropped the scissors and his arms had clung to her waist, gripping her tighter than before. The two fit together like pieces of a puzzle, completing each other. "Well...I think that's just about the most romantic thing anyone has ever told me," They both laughed in unison, now admiring each other's soft eyes. Their arms still wrapped around the other, not wanting to depart just yet. "Thank you, Clementine. Perhaps we're both lucky."

He planted a chaste kiss to her nose as their foreheads collided, his fingers drawing intricate circles on her lower back. "You're right," Her voice now back to a whisper only meant for his ears. "I don't want a normal world if it means you're not apart of it."

They could have remained within that tiny bathroom holding each other for a lifetime. Instead, they both let their young love mend the cracks of their past. His heart thumped from deep within, echoing in her ear. The slow, rhythmic beat had lulled her to sleep many nights. Even his heart made beautiful music.

"I have one last question for you," Clementine asked, no more traces of pain or regret laced within her words.

Louis glanced down at her, marvelling at their height difference. "Go ahead."

She beamed up at him, her chin prodding his chest. There was that devilish gleam in her eyes once again, unmatched by her innocent smile. "Does my hair look bad?"

These stars will guide us home (DamiTim)

Amsterdam is a beautiful city, Damian supposes, old buildings, canals, and so much smuggling. He’d think it prettier if it wasn’t for the group that brought him here.

They are the sort of people his grandfather would have approved of, bound to each other and their common goal and not much else. A life does not mean anything if it is spent for the cause. There is very little left to connect Damian to who he truly is.

Well. There is his phone.

Tim is his contact on this mission. Truthfully, Damian does not mind. He trusts the older man to have his back.

During the first few months, any contact is dangerous. Damian is closely monitored. Still, there is a secure chat app on his phone, and he makes occasional use of it to report. Tim always responds within minutes.

The mission is going well. I was introduced to one of the less important smugglers today. His name is Aart Jansen.

Files say low lever dealer. Not where we want to be but a start.

Damian nods. That’s about what he expected.

Unexpectedly, Tim follows that up with: & apart from work? 

Maybe Dick is standing behind him.

I find it difficult to occupy myself. He is a diamond appraiser to these people. Damian has been trained well enough in the subject to pass, but his intellect remains unchallenged, and the slightly-downtrodden façade he’s meant to keep up the rest of the time does the rest.

How’s tv?

Damian snorts. No.

Hey it’s a good distraction!!

Too much Disney.

id have thought you’d go for the talking animals  🐕 🐴 🦁

Animals don’t talk. That’s the point.

Spoilsport is followed by: go read a book then

I am. Damian allows himself a tiny grin.

what are you reading then?

The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. A classic.

Damian waits for an answer, a snide remark about being snobbish, perhaps, but there’s nothing until a terse gotta go arrives. With a sigh, he goes back to his book and tries not to worry.

so I read a few chapters

Damian blinks at the text. It takes him a moment to remember what Tim is talking about; even longer to decide on what to answer. Did you like it?

‘Your children are not your children, they are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself.’ <<< Bruce should read that

He has. It has not helped him.

Tim ignores that. Is the idiom close to Arabic?

Yes. It’s one of the reasons Damian loves this work. The author was Lebanese and came to the US.

They keep talking about it, sharing their thoughts as they read over the days to follow. Eventually, Damian scrounges up the courage to text Tim: It’s nice to talk about it with someone while I read.

When the answer arrives, it’s not what Damian expects. You know we can get you out anytime, right? It wouldn’t be a failure.

Of course it would be. To have come so far and abandon the mission for something as negligible as homesickness… who does Tim think Damian is?

Damian does not reply, and Tim seems to drop it.

Six days later, there is something in the mail. Damian thinks it’s one of the countless government forms he’s had to fill out ever since he arrived; that’s how well the forgery’s been committed.

There is a form inside. There’s also a picture of his family, taken before Damian left. It was Dick’s birthday, Damian remembers; he made everyone go out for dinner and wear some stupid party hats. At the time Tim took the picture, Steph had decided to get into a chopstick war with Jason over the last dim sum, never mind that they were at an all-you-can-eat restaurant.

Damian stares at himself laughing and wills that feeling back.

“Is it safe to talk?”

Damian considers the question. It is made complicated because he wants the answer to be ‘Yes’ so badly.

“I think,” he says carefully, “they are lessening their surveillance. I am not followed home or during the day unless I leave the city. There have been no new bugs. And I have re-routed this conversation to make it appear like I’m talking to a French student I have been talking to at the art museum.”

“They will approve of that,” Tim says, and Damian tries not to feel gratified at the near-praise. “It will give them something to blackmail with.”

“Of course, she is actually from Poland, merely traveling through Paris.”

That gets him a laugh. “I would have expected nothing less.”

So they talk. Sometimes, late at night for Tim and too early for Damian, they watch movies together. Turns out, Damian likes Disney movies a lot better when Tim takes them apart the entire time.

There’s a video in his inbox. Judging by the timestamp, it was sent sometime at 8 a.m. in Gotham. That’s practically before bedtime for Tim, Damian thinks wryly.

He clicks play.

“Shh,” someone says. The room is dimly lit, but Damian can make out shapes on the couch. There’s a glint of red. Jason?

With near-silent footsteps, Tim (because who else) moves closer. That’s indeed Jason, obviously asleep on the couch, sitting up with his helmet still on and head tilted back. Duke is sitting next to him, head slumped onto Jason’s chest. That cannot be comfortable with all the plating, surely? On Jason’s other side, Steph and Cass are lying tightly intertwined, their heads resting on his thighs.

The camera draws back and moves on. Damian is impressed with how steady Tim managed to keep it. He must have some experienced in film-making, or perhaps photography.

The kitchen door is the next one to open. “Alfred, say hi to Damian!”

The butler looks up from where he’s forming scones. “Hello, Master Damian. I think you will be pleased to find that your newest… acquisition… is settling in quite well.” Tim zooms in on the black kitten hiding behind the bowl of dough. As he leaves the room, he whispers: “He loves her. I have it on good authority that she sleeps on his chest.”

There’s silence for a moment as Tim moves through the corridors, through the grandfather clock and down a path Damian could take in his sleep.

“And now, the grand finale,” Tim announces, “the Batman reveals himself!”

The camera turns to Bruce… who is very much scowling. Or, well, trying to, as one convincingly one can when one has Dick Grayson leaning on your shoulder, snoring and definitely leaving some slobber. Damian knows the feeling. Dick occasionally keeps going for so long that he’ll konk out on the nearest warm body, still clad in his uniform.

“Oh, no! Abort, abort, abort!” There’s some dramatic clatter, the camera falls down and then turns off. Damian guesses it’s some reference to a horror movie he hasn’t seen.

It’s silly, but Damian cannot stop himself from smiling for the rest of the night.

They text more and more often and talk on the phone almost every night, even if it’s just a quick check-in. Still, there is a longing in him. Tim has sent him pictures and videos, has talked to him for hours, but Damian has not seen his face in six months. That seems intolerable, now.

So Damian draws.

It’s a good one, he thinks. Tim, holding his camera, only half-visible but so glaringly alive. Damian didn’t realize how much he looks at Tim before he drew every strand of his hair from memory.

(Does it still look like that? Are there any new scars to join the faint one under Tim’s eye and the ones lacing through his scalp? Damian wants to know and does not know how to ask.)

He knows when Tim receives it because there are no texts for almost twenty hours. Then he gets a call.

Tim’s voice is carefully neutral. “You sent me a drawing.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“It is a thank-you,” Damian offers, “and… an apology.”

“Oh,” Tim says as if he expected something else. He doesn’t ask what Damian is apologizing for. They both know all too well. But he does tell him: “It’s beautiful.”

It feels like crossing a river. Damian likes it.

Tim sends more photographs through their secure chat after that. Some are frame-worthy, some are the worst (best) kind of candid. When Damian tries to reciprocate, he does it the easiest way he can think of: He sends Tim a picture of his poffertjes.

waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaant

Damian offers I could teach you how to make them without thinking.

Seriously? :D I’ll call you in fifteen

He meant ‘When I come back,’ but… this will have to do. Seeing Tim on the screen, trying desperately to heat the cooking fat to the right temperature as he plops the sticky dough in, is enough to make up for not being able to touch him.

It’s the first time they do a video call, but it’s not the last.

When Tim has to leave on a mission of his own for a week, he leaves Damian with the link to the surveillance cameras surrounding the place he’s staying at. Damian doesn’t worry about him, precisely—doing so would be foolish, since Tim has more than proven himself capable—but it makes him feel better to watch him walk past at least once a day, nonetheless.

Damian does not experience nightmares often. When he does, they’re short and very violent.

“Damian?” Tim’s voice is worried, as it should be. Damian texted him Good night. barely an hour ago.

“I’m fine,” Damian manages to grind out.

Tim gets it immediately. “I’ll switch on video, okay?”

Damian knows he looks a mess. He says, “Yes,” nonetheless.

“Hey,” Tim says softly when he comes into view. “You wanna tell me about it?”

Damian shakes his head, and Tim… talks. About everything and nothing. What he and Kon got up to on his last visit to Metropolis. Steph’s new fashion fad (it’s green, and it does not work with her skin at all.) How Bruce rounded up one criminal organization and accidentally crashed the mayor’s gambling den during the proceedings.

Eventually, Damian nods, and Tim trails off with a smile.

It’s late afternoon in Gotham, but Tim curls up on his bed and carefully places the phone against a pillow so he and Damian can still look at each other. There’s an intensity in his gaze that Damian doesn’t completely understand, not yet, but he likes it.

His eyes fall shut when Tim’s do. To his surprise, the sound of Tim’s gentle breaths actually lets him drift back to sleep.

Tim starts a list. Things like ‘check out that new Chinese place on 32nd street’ and ‘watch Into the Spiderverse’ go along with ‘beat you with my new staff.’ He encourages Damian to fill it out, too, and he adds ’take Ace Jr on a walk’ and ‘make Jason recite Shakespeare.’

One day, there’s a new item on a list. ‘Go on a date with you.’

Not once in his life did Damian think he would come to value a grocery list app this much.

Tim sends him a sweater that smells of him. Damian wears it as he wraps up the book he wants them to read next. There’s an illustration on the first page—two hands reaching out, linking their pinkies across the distance. He drew it hoping it will say everything he can’t tell Tim yet.

A few more weeks and Damian will take that plane home. He’ll say it in person, then.

Love How You Hate Me - Sam x Reader

A/N: I know I said I was busy. And I am... I’m going to be at work when this posts. But, I got really into redoing it. And didn’t know if I’d have time after work. So...here we are! Part eight was queued up. As usual, feedback is always incredible. If you want tagged, please send an ask or message so I for sure see it. And, I hope you all enjoy <3

PSA: I am NOT a minor friendly blog. If you are below 18, please come back when you’re older. I don’t want to lose my blog because you were too eager to grow up. If I discover you, I WILL block.

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Sexual Tension. Upcoming smut. 

Word Count: Roughly 3,700

“How's your shoulder?” Sam asked Dean when the oldest flinched lightly while climbing into the passenger seat.

“It's gonna need to be reset. Definitely dislocated.” He gritted out as he leaned his head back into the leather. Luckily, Dean didn't turn around. Your swollen lips, heated face, and lightly sin marked skin would have given you and Sam away in under two seconds.  “How you holdin' up?”

“I'll be good.” You answered as the Impala pulled out of the clearing, moving down the small dirt road to get back to the motel. Removing the wrappers from the gauze. “Might take a little while to heal, but -”

“You should have Cas check it out.” Dean didn't hesitate. Jumping into protector mode. Despite the fact that he was injured, himself.

“It'll heal just fine on its own.” You stated simply. Using a half empty bottle of whiskey that was in the vehicle to soak the material in your hand. “No need to bug, Cas.” You paused for a second as you pressed the material into the wound. Hissing at the burn. “You know...” Gritted teeth didn't stop the path you'd decided to take, “unless you just miss him.”

Dean knew where you were going, “Don't-”

“Destiel.” You cooed mockingly. Wince be damned. A deep, pained sigh left Dean.

“You're never going to let that go, are you?” He grumbled. Crossing his arms in disgust as he pouted.

“Never.” The promise was easy to get out. He'd told you about the incident at a small Michigan high school to cheer you up the night of your nightmare. It hadn't worked well then, but it helped in that moment.

“You told her about that?” Sam shook his head. Snickering all the while. “Dude, you should know better than to fuel her. Look what I get.”

“Uh, yeah. Right here.” You huffed out in the back as you started working on covering your cleaned wound. The last thing you needed was a random person seeing a gouge out of your neck. “Also, pretty sure this can be stitched.”

“Cas could-”

“Dean... No.” You insisted again. Taping the edges of the clean gauze to your skin. “Castiel can't be using all of his grace on me.” The hunter opened his mouth to argue, but you weren't having it. “Now, drop it. Cas has his own shit going on. If he wants to pop in and visit? Fine.” Dean's mouth slammed shut. Teeth grinding at your answer. “But, we're not forcing him to rush over and use up all his grace just because of a scratch.”

“That's a scratch?” Sam interjected. Looking up into the mirror as if you were insane.

“Compared to the victims? Yeah. It's a scratch.” He snorted at your answer. You mocked the sound, muttering about him needing to mind his own business. Dean's lips quirked lightly at the sound. Any worry he'd had started to die down.

“She's stubborn, Sammy.” The oldest brother stated easily, getting more comfortable in his seat. “No one can go out of their way for her.”

“Not true-”

“So, why can't I call Cas up for you, again?” You didn't have a good answer. Simply sputtered some more nonsense about not harassing the angel, and that was that. “See what I mean?” He looked over at his brother in fake exasperation. “God save whoever is stupid enough to fall in love with her.” Sam chuckled at that. Already shaking his head for whoever the poor bastard would be.

“You're just so funny.” You fake laughed before reaching forward to swat at the older brother's spiked hair. “Jack ass.” Dean cackled, proud of his ability to annoy you. The more Sam looked, the more he only saw the sibling relations between you and Dean. Thank God, the thought landed before he could stop it, otherwise Dean would've killed me for today. “Don't look back here,” Your warning broke through his daydreams. Typical blood splatter might've been unnoticeable on the black clothing. However, the leakage from your neck matted down the cotton. Too obvious to risk. “These clothes are wrecked. Gotta change.”

“In the car?” Sam's voice cracked as he thought of the skin he'd just gotten to feel being exposed. It took all his willpower not to turn his head.

“I'm sure you and Dean have both done far worse in this very car.” You huffed out, pulling off your shirt. The stretching of the muscles pulled a bit at the wound and medical tape along your skin, making you grit your teeth. “I know I have.”

“You lech.” Your best friend teased. Already knowing what you were talking about. You’d borrowed the Impala for a day back before moving in.

“Only for the right people.” You grunted out, searching for a spare in the back. As your head popped back up, you caught some movement from the corner of your eye. Deep brown and gold eyes were glancing to the rear view mirror far more often than needed. The gaze connected with your E/C in the mirror. Making you freeze. You didn't move away until your phone sounded. Breaking the spell effectively. “Bane? Hey, what's up?”

“Hey, Y/N...” The slow drawl of your name grabbed your attention. “We, uh...we have some news.”

“Don't you dare tell me she's in labor.” You stated seriously. Unable to stand the thought of not being there for the birth. Being there for your family.

That caught the guys' attention. Dean spun around, only to connect his face with your palm. You shoved his head back forward and away from your half naked torso. Sam turned back to the road. Deciding it was better to keep his head forward after he swerved Baby.

“Not yet. She's going in for a c-section.” Bane answered, his voice shaking lightly. Still in shock.“The baby is going to be here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well, congratulations daddy. You get to see your baby girl tomorrow-”

“Boy!” Sam hollered loudly. Immediately, your face dropped into the bitchface he'd passed on to anyone in his vicinity. The familiar bickering made Bane chuckle.  

“We'll be there in time.” The confirmation seemed to help. A sigh of relief sounded over the speaker. It would entail some speeding. However, if a cop pulled you over? You had no problem knocking them out and bailing. Nothing was going to slow you down.

A timer went off. Telling you he was cooking before the big day, “You guys finish up the hunt?”

The change of subject was nothing more than a way to get his mind off of his nerves. You didn't protest. Giving Bane something else to focus on.

“Yeah, just wrapped it up.” You answered readily.

Another glance up showed the deepening hazel gaze back on you. Reminding you of the fact that the rise and fall of your breasts' slopes were visible to Sam. Your tongue darted out. The immature action only earned a hint of those dimples while Dean fiddled with his radio.

“Any injuries?”  Bane jumped straight to business.

“Nothing serious.” It was shrugged off. The action making you wince a bit. “Back to baby talk.”

“Meaning you were hit.” He sighed out. But, he'd been around long enough to know you weren't going there. “But fine, baby talk.” You smiled fondly at his response.

“Are you two getting excited?”  Maneuvering yourself into the large, green plaid flannel while holding the phone was tricky. But, you managed it.

“We've been excited.” Came the laugh. “But, yeah. I can't wait to hold him or her.” Your heart went all fuzzy at the easy statement.

“How's Alice holding up knowing she's about to be split in half with a scalpel?” You questioned seriously. Worry shining through bright and strong.

You saw Sam's brow's rise quickly in the mirror  at the statement while Dean turned back sharply, catching his shoulder in the process. A muttered curse left him at the sudden pain, before he could even realize you hadn't buttoned up the shirt you'd stolen.

“She's getting edgy.” He replied honestly. Lowering his voice so that his significant other couldn't hear the conversation. “She wants you there. Says she can't do it without you.”

“I said I'd be there, didn't I?”

“She wants you in the room.” That caught you off guard. You'd anticipated hours of sitting in the waiting room, bickering with Sam over the sex of the child. “She doesn't have a mom...you're the closest thing she has to a sister.”

“Give her a huge hug, and tell her I love her.” You finally got out, clearing the lump in your throat. “And that I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

You could hear the smile in his voice, “We love you, too.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, okay? I've gotta kick a couple of boys' asses into gear.” Another laugh sounded before he let you go. “You two hear that? We have to leave. ASAP.” The order was given without a second thought as you discarded your phone. Only moving to button up your shirt.

“Did he give a time?” Sam pressed on the gas a little harder. Not needing the prompting, after all.

“Some time afternoon. That's all I have.” You stated seriously. Pressing back down on the medical tape that was trying to pop up. “So, no after hunt party for us.”

All plans you'd been anticipating no longer mattered. There'd be no one night stand with the chauvinistic cowboy. No blacking out with booze. Instead, you leaned back in your seat. Brushing off a piece of lint that stuck to Sam's green shirt.

–

There'd been no sleep. Your eyes were heavy. The stitched up wound on your neck throbbed. And, yet? None of it bothered you as you sat on the couch.

“She's beautiful.” The infant in your arms yawned wide. Tired from the trauma of being born. Your finger stroked along the too soft cheek.

“Hey,” Sam's low voice broke the quiet as he walked in. Brother in tow. “Pink?” A tiny, yarn hat covered the baby's scalp. “It's a girl?”

“Ava Marie.” Alice spoke the name proudly from her bed. Softly smiling at the sight of you holding her child.

“Feel free to kiss my feet, and beg for my forgiveness.” You sniffed delicately. False offense in full form. “You completely discredited my intuition. Not for the first time.” Sam's eyes rolled in good nature. Not breaking the serenity in the small room.

“Let me see her,” Dean plopped beside you, peeking at the little girl's face. “She's got a lot of her mom in her.” He smiled lightly, reaching a finger out to the tiny hand that stretched out as a little squeak escaped tiny lips. A tiny piece of black escaped the confines of the hat. “Except that hair. That's all Bane.”

“How are you holding up?” Sam asked Alice, sitting down on the end of the bed. Checking in on the other main woman of the hour.

“Starting to get sore.” Her hand lightly ran over her stomach. Wincing a bit as she shifted. “But, it was worth it.” Bane kissed her forehead, and wrapped his fingers around her hand. Holding her in comfort.

“You're in for trouble, little miss.” You smiled down at the baby, letting your finger caress the silky skin again. Entranced by the tiny being. “You're going to grow up so loved, you won't know what to do with it all.” Forgetting about the other people in the room, you whispered gently. “Whenever you mess up? Someone will be right there to pick you up. Keep you safe...you just wait and see.” The oath was coupled with a tender kiss to the her little forehead. Earning a soft little sigh that melted your heart.

Sam turned his head your way. Letting himself absorb the words he'd caught. Realizing that you were promising everything that you'd grown up without. Security. Love. Loyalty.

Alice's eyes had watered up and welled over lightly at your words. Partially from the hormones, and from the sincerity in your voice. Not for the first time, he wondered what had all happened in your poor excuse of a childhood.

“Pass her up.” The younger Winchester slid over to the seat next to you. Making sure you didn't have a chance to think about what you'd said in front of everyone.

“No way. Get your own.” You moved closer to Dean. Trusting him to aid you in protecting the child from the ultimate prankster. Only to have her swiped into the older brother's arms. “What the hell? Traitor!”

“Get your own,” Came the repeated phrase. Your bottom lip slipped out, but it did no good. You'd been replaced for an eight pound little girl.“Heya, sweetheart.” His deep voice made her stir lightly in her sleep. “When are you going to let me see those eyes, huh?” The calloused hand of his bad arm stroked her cheek so gently it was criminal. Any grumbling had long been forgotten as you watched him interact with Ava.

You got to your feet, and moved over to sit next to Alice. Leaving the once gruff man to turn into pudding while his brother scooted closer. Your hand wrapped into hers in silent support. Not moving an inch, you let her head lean over to rest on your shoulder. Quiet exhaustion making itself known. Bane's arm snaked around, making contact with you and Alice. Holding his growing family together, again.

“Hey, beautiful.” You'd never heard such soft words leave Sam before that moment. “I'm you're Uncle Sam...” A low, shuddering breath left him when the baby's hand wrapped around one of his fingers. “You remember me?” All he got in return was a small grunt paired with lip smacking. But, it was more than enough.

His bright eyes met yours, and for the first time, he sent you a grin. An honest to god beam. Dimples curved into his cheeks. The brows bounced as his eyes lit up even more. You'd thought he was devastatingly handsome when angry, but in that moment? You got your first real glimpse at how it felt not to be despised by Sam Winchester.

Something that wouldn't last. Your face fell a bit at the reminder. You turned your eyes away from his. Cuddling more into Alice to chase away the feeling of being alone...

–

Before you knew it, Ava Marie was a month old. Smiling up at anyone who got too close. The happiest, gummiest child you'd ever seen. Each one stealing your heart all over again.

You'd moved in to help with the baby. Giving Alice time to heal. Taking care of the mundane chores so Bane could come home from work and immediately jump into the role of a doting father rather than maid.

Not only did it give you extra time with your goddaughter, but it also kept you away from Sam. Away from the tension that never seemed to leave since that damned kiss. It kept your sanity in tact. His visits were bad enough.

His eyes always let you know that he hadn't forgotten that foolish moment. That he still remembered seeing you afterwards. It didn't matter what you were doing, or how hard you'd avoided it, you still ended up catching the heat from his gaze. Every time, you were left squirming uncomfortably in your seat. Something that Sam seemed to enjoy far too much.

Dean wasn't clueless. Although he'd never even graduated high school, he was smart. More than you liked. Every look he caught, or hint of mischief on his brother's face? Led to nothing short of suspicion.

He hadn't seen you two around each other enough to put it together. Thankfully. But, the time would come where he would. And you dreaded it.

By the time you got home, they were long gone. Back to the lives of hunters. Not that you minded. In fact, the relief was incredible.

Sam's words had made you edgy, “We're not done.” You weren't prepared to handle the weight of them. Didn't know what it'd mean for life at the bunker.

You did it to yourself, you'd decided as you sprawled out on your bed for the first time since Ava had gone home. Unable to enjoy the give of your mattress, so lost in your own thoughts. You were the one who had instigated the sexual banter with your innuendos. You may not have given into it first, but you'd certainly been the one to not let him back out of the kiss.

And by doing so? You'd set yourself up. Not only for a long bought of sexually frustrated nights filled with images of the younger Winchester. But, he'd invaded your days. Your conscious mind swirled around it time and time again. It was maddening.

You sighed as you turned onto your stomach, letting your hand support your head. Trying to take your mind off of it wasn't working. But, the show Salem was twisted enough to assist. Just as it started working, your door crept open, and the moose himself walked in.

“I thought you two were gone?” You hated that he walked in without knocking, catching you off guard. Not nearly as clothed as you needed to be for the interaction. Only a green tank and matching pair of cheeksters covered you.

You felt more than a little exposed as you felt his gaze burning into your skin for the second time. But, you didn't let your eyes connect with his. They remained glued on the screen.

“Finished up early.” He replied, trying to focus more on your cool attitude than the bare skin that was exposed to him. It wasn't working so hot. Sam cleared his throat, turning the conversation to something a bit safer. “How's Alice?”

“Glowing with motherhood.” You didn't even glance at him. He'd be lying if he said his jaw didn't tick at the lack of response. “Where's Dean?”

“Left for a night out. Figured you'd still be over there until tomorrow, when Bane was off.” The bed dipped. Your body tensed as he made himself comfortable. Determined to make you notice him.

In your dreams, he would have pounced. Refusing to take even the slightest bit of disobedience. But, in real life? Sam was more subtle than that. His hand grazed the skin of your thigh as he got comfortable. No other contact with you. Just resting close enough to torture. To force you to be aware of just how close he was.

“What do you think you're doing?” Your voice was supposed to have a hard edge, but the effect was lost among the breath you released at the same time.

“This looks interesting. What is it?” He ignored your question. Another tiny, almost undetectable movement along your heightened skin made you shift. The touch just against your hip had you taking a deep breath. Reciting exorcisms in your head to block him out. “Well?” He didn't like being ignored. Another feather light touch was your punishment.

“Salem.” You huffed out, not so subtly pulling away. It didn't work. He simply followed. Getting more comfortable on your bed. Bastard.

“What's it about?” His voice was filled with husky undertones that made you shift lightly as you tried to ignore him.

The minute you looked into his eyes, you were a goner. You knew it. So, you resisted. Only, he grew more bold the more you didn't stop him. Ignored him. A bit more direct contact until his hand was resting just beneath your butt.

“Sam?” Your voice was unsteady, but hard enough to catch his attention a bit as you broke. “I don't want to play games...What are you doing?”

“Trying to get past the wall of ice you threw up.” His fingers pressed into your skin lightly. Causing a shiver to trace over your skin. “Is it working?”

“No.” You kept your voice as stern as you could, and he froze. Your eyes closed as you forced the words past your lips. “I'm all about no strings attached sex, Sam. Just not with you.”

“So, what the hell was that scene by the Impala?” Horny and confused was a dangerous combination. One you wanted to take advantage of. But, didn't dare.

“After hunt adrenaline rush.” You shrugged, still refusing to look at him. Using every bit of strength you possessed. “You started it, Sam...I just responded to the high.”

There was no doubt in either of your minds that you were lying. That's why you wouldn't meet his gaze. Why you refused to get too close.

“Got it,” He let his fingers tighten once more on your skin before getting up. Drawing a sharp in-drawn breath from you. “So, we go back to how things were? Act like it never happened?”

“Precisely.” The answer was too fast. Too breathy. A wry smile crossed Sam's face as he looked down at you. Noting the rigidness in your spine.

“If you insist.” His tone made your skin prickle. There was something in it that reminded you of just who you were dealing with. What all he had to get even for. “Night, Y/N.” Your name was a caress on his lips.

“Night, Samuel.” You retorted, as if your sass would be enough to protect you. The thrill of the challenge only increased the allure. And Sam was nothing if not willing to rise to it...

Part Nine

Tag: @burningmusicmachine​ @missmarrinette​ @sherlockedtash88​ @rathersuspiciousbumblebee​ @sasbb23​ @nothinbuttrouble2​ @baby-bunker-pie​ @neii3n​ @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce​

Forever: @dean-winchesters-bacon​ @supernaturalginger​

Fides

Three thousand years later... ^^; Thanks so much @esamastation for letting me play with your idea of a terrarium filled with fairies!

---

Fides: (noun, latin) faith, trust, confidence, loyalty, promise of protection.

---

Chapter 1

Stiles Stilinski is a pariah, a loser, a freak and an outcast, and he’s proud of it.

It’s been like that ever since his mother lost it and Evan Richards -big brother by one year to Jonathan (Stiles' classmate) and son to Mary, who was his doctor. All of them trash, because who shares a child's medical history like that, huh? So trash family to its fullest. Trash mother (Stiles has never liked her), trash father (he has never met him, but nothing but trash can produce such trash) and trash sons. They should make a musical a la The Sound of Music, it would be a hit for sure!- spread a lot of rumors about him sharing the same sickness and being a total psycho. Suddenly, everyone had always suspected, friends had the prefix former attached to that title, no one wanted him around. He always did this and that, didn’t you see? He had to take some kind of medication every day, didn’t you see? He was too strange, didn’t you see? What kind of boy wanted to know that much (if anything at all!) about male circumcision, huh? It wasn’t normal, didn’t you see? Blah, blah, blah. Yadda, yadda, yadda. And then, no one in Lost Hills School wanted to touch that (him) with a ten foot pole.

Stiles, after two horrific weeks of shunning and jeers and coming back to an empty home because the sheriff was god knows where, decided to prove them right and fought back by being as crazy as he could… without getting caught, of course, he's not an idiot. The final balance? No one wanted to be his friend, sure, but no one wanted to be his enemy either.

Stiles is a vicious, cunning, vengeful and grudge-holding asshole, and he’s proud of that too.

He doesn’t need anyone. He hasn’t needed anyone ever since he was eight and he had to start cleaning up the fridge and going grocery shopping and tidying up the house and doing the laundry and mending his ripped clothes and… All in all, ever since he finally acknowledged that his father wasn’t going to get away from the bottle long enough to take care of him like he should.

(His stance was proven right when his dad did get away from the bottle (changing his mere alcoholic status to functional alcoholic) enough to relaunch his cop career into being named Kern County’s sheriff. Which pretty much changed nothing for Stiles, who still had to take care of himself, but now had to cook for one instead of two, more often than not. He got really creative with his cooking, that's for sure. Now he understands why people say that cooking for one is such a pain. He has also learned that a recipe found on the internet is like walking on a minefield: it may turn out alright or blow up in your face spectacularly.)

So he doesn’t need anyone, indeed, but he’s twelve, alone, with no means of transportation out of town to see anything new (unless he wants to bike his way out), some pocket money that he’ll most likely need to spend on groceries when his father inevitably forgets about him, and the entire summer vacation ahead of him and no activities to fill it with. The Internet, for once, is not cutting it at all, and hacking into his peers’ computers to plant viruses in them seems to have lost its charm and isn’t working either. And hacking the teachers'j room’s printer to have it spit pages with Mr. Jones’ porn sporadically isn’t funny with no one there to see it. Summer work, finished. Everything is clean. Laundry is done. He has the meals for the entire week prepared already.

In other words, he’s bored as hell and about to climb the walls in frustration.

He sighs and looks to the ceiling of the living room, as if the couple of stains above him are going to give him an answer to his dilemma. He’s been sprawled like a starfish since half an hour ago, ever since he let himself fall off the couch dramatically after checking all the channels on the TV. Thrice. He contemplates the idea of binge watching Star Wars again and dismisses it almost instantly, because he did that yesterday and, he loves them, he really does, but it would be too much even for him.

He wiggles in place almost in agony after going over all the possibilities again in his head and finding none suitable. The backyard catches his eye and he thinks of getting the inflatable pool to at least stop being an asphyxiated starfish and soak for a while, escaping the almost unbearable heat.

He dismisses the idea again because he hasn’t liked spending time there ever since his dad took a look at the mess his mother’s garden had turned into and took care of it. Definitely. Stiles had tried, he really had, but he didn’t seem to have his mom’s green thumb and also he had more than enough on his plate without having to despair over the gardenias.

(Seeing the empty spaces where the flower beds used to be always made his heart constrict, so he stopped looking.)

He looks again, raising up from his sprawled position. He misses her garden and the aroma that would drift through the window in spring. She never won any contest, but it was beautiful.

And now there isn’t a single plant in the house.

Stiles suddenly wants one. The memory of her garden is a good one, along with the smiles she would throw over her shoulder at him, with dirty hands and sometimes even face, when she would forget and scratch her nose. And Stiles, unlike his dad, is past the point where he avoids all memories of her and he tries to cherish the good ones. Even though the tools she used still give him nightmares sometimes (if he ever sees the little trowel with the light green handle and the matching hand fork it will be too soon), he still wants a plant. Or many. So that's it, he's getting some.

But...

But he doesn’t want to kill it, he had enough of that with the gardenias, thank you very much. So research it is. He’s going to research the hell out of it to start easy.

He nods to himself and, somehow, three hours later, the initial idea of getting a hardy cactus, which evolved to planting lavender or snapdragons, has in turn led him to inside moss terrariums and now he’s hooked. Because, apart from the awesome plant-only creations, some even put little houses un them… and there are Star Wars terrariums. Star Wars. And now he has decided he’s going to make an entire Ewok village. Not a dupe one, but an entirely functional one with even that cage elevator they had. And the bridges. And all the furniture. And… it’s going to last.

Decision made, he makes a list of what he needs and then, he plans. The container, he has, because they never got rid of uncle Celestyn’s big as hell fish tank. The glue gun, woodworking tools and materials, gloves and pebbles, he has too. Wood he can get from the broken juniper table his dad bought to fix and then never did, and moss he can easily find. He’s missing the peat moss soil and the hygrolon. The first he knows he can find at home depot, the second, he’s not so sure. True, he could make the terrarium without it, but he wants moss to cover the walls too. If he doesn’t find it or can’t afford it (there's no way he’s going to spend all his just-in-case money), he’ll make do with what he has, though.

---

The soil he has no problem getting, but the hygrolon he finds out is only sold online and it’s pretty expensive to boot. He mourns for a moment and then moves on, already making plans on how to shape the landscape of the terrarium.

He needs to cut the table to make the fake trees for the houses and he doubts he can do that without injuring himself. Not only does he not have that kind of heavy machinery, but he wouldn’t dare to use it. Then, he remembers his father’s former partner, Anderson, who likes woodworking and, more importantly, Stiles.

“Is everything okay, kiddo?”

He’s also the one he’s supposed to call in case of an immediate emergency when his father is out of town. Besides the one time he caught a stomach bug from his classmates and couldn’t go to school, he’s never done it. Not because he doesn’t like him (nothing farther from the truth, actually) but because he’s used to always dealing with problems himself.

“Sure!” he chirps. “I was just wondering if you could help me with a project?”

“You’re supposed to do those by yourself, Stiles,” the man laughs, obviously amused.

“It’s not for school!” he protests indignant and then explains what he needs. “Do you think you can help me with the trees and making the sheets of wood for the houses?“

There’s silence from the other side of the line and Stiles can picture easily what the man is thinking. He knows that Stiles is going to do it one way or another, that his father is on the other side of the county so it’s not like he’s going to be there to stop him, that it’s better if he takes on the more dangerous parts himself and instructs Stiles on how to make the others without hurting himself. In other words, he’s thinking about danger prevention and damage control. Stiles hears a sigh and makes a silent triumphant dance.

“Well,” he grumbles and Stiles snickers, “it’s not like I have anything better to do. Damn the retirement. Time of your life, my ass. I’ll be there in an hour, kiddo. Don’t you dare start without me there, you hear me? I don’t want to have to explain to your dad why you’re missing some fingers.”

“Yes, sir,” he salutes, still snickering.

When he arrives, he brings with him a portable grinding machine, a piece of fallen wood from his own garden and sealant. “I imagine you don’t want the moss to reach the trees and the houses, do you?” He explains and Stiles grins, delighted.

(Stiles really, really likes Anderson.)

About three hours later, Anderson has made a structure that will ensure that the trees don’t fall. There is one big tree and three clusters of trees joined each by various platforms at different levels, with spaces where the houses will sit. He even went as far as to shape them as if they are made out of wooden boards (instead of flat) and to hollow the thickest of the trees at that platform level. Stiles also had the idea of making the top of each tree hollow too to put a potted plant inside, so that it won’t look bare and strange. All in all, they are ready to start the setup.

“So,” the man looks at him intently. “Where are you going to put it?”

“I want it in my room,” he answers, “near the window. On the floor.”

“The floor?”

“Don’t wanna have to take the ladder every time I have to water it.”

“Fair enough,” Anderson snickers and Stiles pouts. “But you know you’re going to have to wait to finish the house to set the terrarium, right? Unless you want to do that kind of detailed work from above and with an awkward angle to boot,” he explains and then laughs at his despairing face. “Take it easy, kiddo. Call me when you want to do it and I’ll help you, ok? How about this, if you promise to be careful and not do anything careless, I’ll make a waterfall for your terrarium.“

“I can’t…” he starts protesting.

“It will be an early Christmas present. Deal?”

“There’s no waterfall in the Ewok Village…” Stiles grumbles, “but deal.”

And they shake on it.

All in all, even if he’s a little peeved about having to wait, Stiles is happy with the progress. He still hasn’t gotten the moss, so it’s not as if waiting for a bit is going to hurt… and he got a waterfall out of it. He grins, waving at Anderson as he leaves the drive. It’s going to be awesome.

—

Once he starts, he can’t stop, focused in a way that’s unusual for him.

The bridges are easy enough so long as he follows the measurements he’s made, because he only has to shape the steps, make a hole on each side of them, use the rope to secure them and then braid the whole thing. He uses the glue gun for good measure, to make sure it’s sturdy enough.

The houses are a little more complicated because they are rounded. He ends up getting round objects to support the wood while the glue dries. There are a couple of instances when they get stuck to the object he’s using and he has to start anew, but he learns how to avoid that pretty quickly. The windows and the doors are a pain in the ass in themselves. He destroys a couple of houses trying to cut them until he finds another method for that too. He precuts the wood and uses cardboard to fill in the space while it dries and it works like a charm. As it is, he has now seven vaguely house-looking semicircles with two levels (joined by a little staircase) and even some shelves inside, that he has to stick to the main structure to be able to finish the roof. He leaves that for later, because once he does that it will be a nightmare to put the furniture inside.

He struggles for a while with the tables, seats and any other detailed work he remembers from the movie, because working at that scale, even with the tweezers, is hard. Again, he’s nothing if not stubborn and he works out a method to do those too. The shelves are easy enough because it’s just a matter of measuring, cutting the actual boards of the shelves with a c shape to fit the circular walls and gluing them, both between them and to the walls. The table, the seats and the beds are easy after that, again just taking care to measure well and struggling to not have his hands tremble when he assembles them all. He even uses one of his dad’s old furry sweaters for the beddings and old t-shirts for other things like that, carefully sewing the edges to make them look more like the ones in the movie. The drawers and the wardrobes are a pain in the ass to make and he regrets even trying almost from the very first time he tries to put the drawer in its place and it doesn’t fit and then, after trying to fix it, it gets stuck. He perseveres, though, and it gets easier the more he makes. As for its door, he follows the same method he’s going to use with the doors to the house (with holes and string, because making hinges at this scale is beyond his capabilities and he has accepted that) and it ends up looking pretty neat.

(In the middle of all this, his father comes and goes but, even if he makes sure to come by Stiles’ room every night, he doesn’t seem to notice what has his own son so busy, always too concentrated on some case or another and the room too dark to actually see anything. They make small talk and he pats his head some mornings. Stiles is kind of indifferent. He loves his dad, he really does, but he’s tired of having to be always the one who tries to make a connection.)

The day when he can finally start gluing it all to the main structure comes, and he ends up not doing it after all, because he takes a look at the houses and finds them empty. Two days later, after hours of research on how to do the cutlery and the pottery, some failed attempts and a trip to the mall, he finds himself shaping them out of polymer clay, preheated oven beside him. If that wasn’t enough, after having rows upon rows of glasses, containers and different types of plates and bowls, he adds pans and pots to the collection until he’s satisfied.

Finally, nearly four weeks after he started, he starts gluing the houses in place and securing them with extra pillars that he pins to the main structure. He makes the roofs by shaping little sticks and gluing them in place, copying the ones from the movie. They’re not exactly like them, but it’s as close as he’s going to get with his current skill level. He then sticks the stairs that connect each level and the bridges between the three clusters and the lone bigger tree, where he has attached the biggest house too. As the final touches, he decorates the main area with rustic wooden benches and stumps, all around the setup for a fire, and attaches the polymer clay pulley with the cage (which has a working door, of course) at the far end of it. He then reapplies the sealant just in case and breathes, feeling deeply accomplished.

He waits a couple of days for everything to settle before he calls Anderson again. The man sounds like he has had fun with the waterfall project and like he feels pretty accomplished too. Stiles can’t wait to see it and to show him what he’s done too. Anderson tells him he’ll come by the next day and Stiles takes the opportunity to go to collect the moss and buy the plants for the tree tops.

At the home depot, he debates between the Pothos and the Heart-Leaf Philodendron. In the end, the Pothos is an easy choice, because not only is it very easy maintenance and purifies the air, but it’s also on sale and he spends much less than what he was expecting on them. He doesn’t have much pocket money left, but his allowance day is in three days, so he’s not as wary about it as he would normally be.

He feels a little silly about having to make two trips to take the six little plants home, but nothing breaks, so all is good. He checks the space for the potted plants at the top of the trees and they fit perfectly. He cheers and dances around the room like a dork for a while before going moss hunting. By the time dinner time rolls around, he has everything in place and having to eat dinner alone again doesn’t even sting like it normally does.

---

Anderson comes pretty early in the morning and whistles in appreciation at what he sees, making him beam and grin proudly. Then he takes out of his car a waterfall as tall as the whole tank and Stiles gapes astonished. The man snickers at his face, reaching to mess up his hair, and goes inside the house again.

After placing the tank in Stiles’ room, first they install the waterfall. It fits perfectly in a corner of the fish tank, going a little above its edge to disguise the wire and the flow’s setting very cleverly. The man has also made it so that Stiles can change the water inside using a little tube or refill it from outside, without having to take the whole thing out.

After that, they place the tree structure and then they cover all the spaces and the root part of the trees with pebbles. To the ones near the waterfall they apply a layer of sealant to prevent the moss eating the poor thing alive and over the rest they put a good layer of wet peat moss soil, making sure it doesn’t lay flat. Over that, they place the moss they’ve previously trimmed to fit and parts of the fallen wood to make it look more realistic. Finally, Stiles puts the Pothos at the tree tops, fills the waterfall and turns it on.

He has his Ewok Village like he said he would. His mom would have loved it because she loved gardening just as much as she loved Star Wars. Specifically, she loved the Ewoks. She had a lot of figurines and even made an Ewok onesie (furry hat included) for him when he was a baby. There’s photographic evidence of that in one of the dusty albums in the storage room. They feature Stiles in that onesie playing with the figurines and his mom in the background laughing.

(And now he wants to cry.)

(He waits until Anderson leaves.)

---

When school starts again, the moss is growing nicely and the Pothos are still alive. Stiles is also seriously considering either braving the storage room in search of those Ewok figurines or setting some of his allowance money aside to buy them, to put them in the village.

(His dad finally takes notice of the giant terrarium in his room. First he berates him for doing dangerous things and then, sighing exasperated, he congratulates him.)

(Stiles could have done without the lecture.)

—

There are two new kids at school that have transferred from New York of all places, which means they have climbed the social ladder ridiculously fast. Stiles hopes he’s wrong about the twins, but if things go as they normally do, he thinks he’s going to have to set some boundaries soon. He’s already caught others whispering to them about crazy Stiles that is a total nutjob that will destroy your life if you cross him and, while it somehow brings him a kind of vindictive glee and pride, it also can mean three different things for him. One, they think him a bully and try to teach him a lesson; two, they try to take him down to establish themselves as top dog for bragging rights; three, they don’t dare mess with him and avoid him like the plague. Okay, there could be a fourth and they could try to find if all those rumors are true for themselves, but yeah, right.

(Is it bad that out of those four choices he’s hoping for the third?)

Well, time will tell, he supposes.

(He has to resist the strong temptation of making a pre-emptive strike quite bad, though.)

—

About a month into the school year, the newcomers seem to have settled into a mixture of the three first options, leaning mostly towards the third after Stiles manipulated things into having them banned for the rest of the year from lacrosse in retaliation for a failed attempt at teaching him a lesson. Of course, no one can prove it was him, but they know .

It’s a rainy Friday afternoon in which he’s bored out of his mind, so Stiles finally decides to search for the Ewok figurines and to do a deep clean-up of the storage room while he’s at it.

After nearly one hour full of coughs, sneezes and watering eyes due to the ridiculous amount of dust, he decides that his plans of action are flawed and that he has to change them if he wants to come out of this experience alive and with his body intact.

(The giant spider that he’s pretty sure is actually the last dinosaur on Earth may or may not have helped force him into a hasty retreat.)

Half an hour and a trip to the store later, he tries to tackle the mission impossible again. With a facemask, the longest gloves he could find, his father’s protective glasses and his head covered with an old towel, no dinosaur is going to beat him. He also has long sleeves and has changed his shorts for pants, tucking them inside his socks for good measure, so that nothing crawls up there. He shudders just thinking about it. He just can’t stand spiders.

He decides to divide it into sections. First he organizes and cleans the things in those sections, making piles outside the room, then he tidies the spot superficially before tackling another section. And rinse and repeat. When he has the whole room mostly empty (there is some furniture he can’t move), he starts cleaning it thoroughly. Afterwards, he puts the organized piles (photo albums, books, music…) inside again neatly, filling drawers and shelves. He doesn’t dare to throw anything away but, except for some toys that hold a big sentimental value to him, he does set aside some things he never uses to donate them.

Six hours after he started, he hears his father’s cruiser pulling into the drive and he debates about what to do. He’s almost done but he hasn’t touched his mom’s things yet, having left them for last. His dad still won’t talk about her and all her things have been hidden in the storage room ever since he let go of the bottle, because the sight of them made him want to track the nearest liquor store and send them into bankruptcy after leaving them out of stock.

Stiles doesn’t want to be the one to pull him into that downward spiral again. He sighs, looking mournfully at the three boxes with his mother’s things. Maybe he’ll sneak in after dinner to at least get the figurines and set them in his terrarium, when his dad has gone to bed. He frowns when he hears him talking to the neighbor. Maybe…

In the end, with his heart beating wildly in his ribcage, he opens the boxes hastily, hoping that the figurines are in first sight. And they are. He rushes to his bathroom beaming but still jittery with nerves, and cleans them under the spray of water as fast as he can. When his father calls, they are already placed inside the terrarium.

He completely forgets about his battle attire and blinks in confusion for a moment when his dad asks about it, his eyebrow raised.

“Spring cleaning,” he chirps brightly, too happy about his success to care about resentment. “Er… Autumn cleaning?”

His dad snorts and pats his head fondly, only to pull his hand back with a grimace at the amount of dust settled there.

(The next day, by the time he finishes checking, cleaning and organizing his mom’s things, he’s not crying, dammit, it’s just that he forgot to put on the facemask and the dust is irritating his eyes.)

(He squirrels away the picture of himself in all his ewok onesie glory with his laughing mother and plastifies it, hiding it inside the biggest house of the terrarium so that if you crouch and you know where to look, you can see it.)

(He's the happiest he's been in a long time, and nothing can ruin what he's accomplished. Nothing.)

—

(Or maybe something can, because really, what the hell???)

Stiles wants to know what the hell has he ever done to deserve this. Or, if that’s a thing, in any of his past lives for that matter. Did he kill puppies or kitties for fun? Or babies? Was he Hitler? Because destroying the increasingly aggressive twins’ impeccable (or not so much now, but that was the point) record can’t possibly warrant this bad karma, right? Right?

It’s not his fault, ok? He did notice something was wrong, but who would have thought about this as an explanation? He did notice that the water of the waterfall went down too fast to be normal, but he thought it was maybe because of the heat wave! And of course he noticed that sometimes the ewok figurines were slightly out of place, but he thought that maybe his dad…

Seriously.

He calls a big WTF.

Fairies.

He can’t even…

No, seriously, he can’t.

He can’t because they somehow have made the Pothos grow meters in mere seconds and he’s plastered against the wall. Upside down. Stiles feels somehow betrayed because he’s their daddy, he’s been lovingly taking care of them since they were little babies and they have attacked him after all he has done for them…

He’s not being ridiculous, thank you very much. There are fairies in his room. There are fairies in his room pointing sharp looking little things at his face and he’s so completely out of his depth that he can’t stop talking. And there’s a little one (well, smaller that the rest, that is) that sneaked around the guards (or that’s at least what Stiles assumes them to be) about three minutes ago that wants to know where did all the hair go and he’s for some reason babbling about onesies and what ewoks are and the guards keep threatening him and…

“… what the hell?” he finally snaps, fed-up. “This is my house, my room, and the terrarium you’re accusing me of invading and all that shit? It’s mine too. I built it with my own two hands, and paid for the materials, and… I call bullshit here. You’re the ones trespassing here! I should be the one demanding explanations and not the other way round. And for the last time, I don’t know any glint or beam or spark or whatever the hell you’re talking about, ok?!”

The fairies go silent. They look at each other and then back at Stiles.

And it turns out that Stiles does know a spark… and quite well at that. Because he is one. Surprise, enter confetti and crackers. And the reason he has a fairy infestation in his room? Their colony was destroyed back in August and they were left wandering for a while, until the beckoning magic that Stiles had placed in the terrarium to mark it as a safe place for passing fairies called to them.

(His what now????)

Except they haven’t been able to find a suitable place to rebuild yet, and their manpower was reduced to a sixth (if that) of what it used to be when the colony fell, and there are members that are still healing, and their ruling pair is gone (which apparently means that their power has been reduced to a facsimile of what it should be), and…

In other words, they are desperate and grasping at straws and completely at loss about what to do right now. Well, it’s not like they say it outright (in fact they actually try to cover their obvious despair at the whole situation), but Stiles is quite adept at reading between the lines and he knows desperation when he sees it.

(He has intimate knowledge of it, after all.)

So, even though he’s still plastered to the wall with his feet nearly touching the ceiling, which places his head at an intimidating height from the ground and he’s definitely not happy about that, Stiles caves in. Kind of.

“We don’t have enough dishes and stuff,“ he grumbles with a sigh. When he receives no response, clearly having thrown them off kilter, he just continues. “Dishes and glasses and all that stuff, we don’t have enough. Because you’re about twenty people, that I can see, and I only made eight or ten of each, if I remember well.”

“We’ve been sharing?” the guard with his spear-like thing nearly up Stiles’ nose squeaks finally. Squeaks, yes, because all of them have high voices, man or woman, that he has to strain to listen to. He vaguely wonders about it, because there's no way he should be able to listen to them at this distance, but he dismisses it for now, chalking it up to some kind of fairy magic or whatever, because he has more pressing matters to worry about at the moment.

Stiles is going to regret all this, he just knows it. But he’s an incorrigible softie at heart just as much as he’s a vengeful asshole. He sighs again. “Come on, let me down before my brain leaks through my nostrils. I still have some polymer clay.”

So fairies are a thing.

He knows others in his situation would never believe what’s in front of their very own eyes, but Stiles has always been able to roll with whatever life throws at him, no matter what that is. Besides, thinking logically, he has taken no drugs or drank any alcohol that could impair his senses or make him hallucinate and, although he could be starting to develop the same dementia as his mother (and it is a possibility)… well, he pinched himself not a minute ago and yep, he was still hanging upside-down, plastered to his bedroom wall by the Pothos. The only thing left for him to do on that front is to somehow buy a pregnancy test to check if it turns positive, so until he manages to do that, fairies are a thing.

And he’s a wizard.

Or a spark, whatever. What matters is that that’s a thing too. A thing that is exciting and terrifying at the same time, because what other creatures exist too then? Elves? Vampires? Werewolves? Nymphs? Are those real too? Which myths are real and which not? As a spark, which are his powers? Can he do magic? Spells? Rituals? What can he do?

He wants answers, he’s not letting them stay out of the goodness of his… well, he is, but that doesn’t mean he can’t get something out of it, right? Admittedly, if they refuse to give him answers, he’s not going to kick them out. He’ll just have to find those answers by himself, that’s all. He’s pretty self-sufficient, so if push comes to shove, he’ll do it without help, like he always does. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to try to convince them, though.

His ears ring when he’s finally let down. He sits on the rug, holding his head as he waits for the dizziness to pass and for his vision to clear. He doesn’t appreciate the wet and cold sensation at all. Well, at least they didn’t just let go to see him brain himself with the free fall, so that’s definitely a sign of goodwill... right?

He eyes the overgrown Pothos warily, thinking of a way to manage it without having to chop the whole plant off. Then he decides that it’s not his mess, so he’s not going to take care of it. “You better leave these the way they were before,” he states firmly, pointing at the plant. “I’m not gonna explain that to my dad. My house, my rules and all that jazz.”

Up until now, Stiles has never let anyone walk over him and he’s not going to start with some fairies.

Next ⭐

📀👕🃏♡

halloween/fall rp prompts (i’m so sorry i had the first two done before halloween, but then had Shit™ so here we are… december 1st wow) @santababv

📀 to watch scary movies with my muse

William was truly more courageous of a person than people thought he was, a brave prince residing deep within him, but instead, just because he was quiet and wore glasses and kept to himself, he was some fragile and innocent being, as if those things somehow just aligned and made up a person. It used to bother him some, but anymore he didn’t care much at all. He had Ellis, who knew him inside and out, through and through, and saw every part of him, and that was all William really needed. One person to see him as he was. In his case, he was lucky enough to say that that one was both his best friend and his lover, his person.

His bravery apparently didn’t translate into theoretical theatricalities, however. He was always prepared to put up a fight when the situation were to arise, but when it played out in front of him with the sole purpose of creating fear in the watcher, he never seemed to quite excel at remaining relaxed. In so many of these situations, he knows he’d be just as stupid as the main characters, ready to stand and battle the evil risen. In some rare cases of the movies, he felt that with Ellis by his side, there were chances they could be the evil ones. Maybe those two things were the reason William suddenly lost his backbone with these stupid horror flicks.

“Ellis, stop,” William whined as his boyfriend left wet kisses on his neck, eyes remaining fixed on the screen. He gasped suddenly, which caused Ellis to pull back with a smirk only to see that his reaction was not in fact to the bite mark he’d just made on William’s skin, but rather a part of the movie playing in front of them. He narrowed his eyes at the slightly smaller boy, unhappy with his current lack of paying him any attention. It was rare that when he were to whine an, ‘Ellis, stop,’ it actually meant to stop, and rarer that he barely paid any mind to Ellis going to work on his very sensitive skin.

Begrudgingly, and with more than a few disappointed noises, Ellis stopped his attempts at getting William undressed. He pulled William’s legs across his lap before leaning over and laying against the other boy’s chest, arms wrapped around his torso comfortably. Mindlessly, still completely entranced by the movie, William’s hand almost immediately found Ellis’s hair, fingers twisting into his soft curls gently. If it weren’t for William’s yelling at the screen and his movements (including lightly smacking Ellis multiple times to see if he’d seen what just happened), and the fact that he still had an undressed William in the back of his mind, he could have fallen asleep.

William couldn’t stop watching, forgetting everything around them, and only remembering where he was when the scariest parts caused him to grasp onto Ellis and be grateful that he was there with him and clearly unbothered by the fright.

Upon the movie finally ending, the next one started up automatically after a few seconds, and William was honestly ready to settle in for it, despite the fact that he knew he was definitely going to be giving himself nightmares, but apparently Ellis had been patient long enough.

“Ellis, I have to find out what happens in the next movie!” he exclaimed through a few laughs as Ellis grabbed at him, pointing exasperatedly toward the television.

Previously cuddled onto William’s chest, he sat up and shook his head. “No, you don’t,” he replied, grabbing William’s torso and throwing him down sideways on the bed. He smoothly settled between William’s legs and swept his lips up the boy’s neck. William lost his breath for the moment, caught in his throat – a common effect of Ellis’s touch and control. “You’re mine now,” he whispered, half lidded eyes staring intensely into William’s, “do I have your attention?”

“Yes,” William confirmed breathlessly, low voice breaking as he looked back.

“Good,” Ellis responded cheekily, a wide grin spreading on his face. He leaned in, running his fingertips down William’s arms gently, only to take the remote from him, clicking the TV off and throwing it off the bed.

William rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Really?”

“No distractions,” Ellis nodded seriously before grinning again. He pulled William closer to  him, his legs up against his hips. “Now…” he said as he got face to face with him again, caressing William’s face with one hand, “…to make you forget about anything else but me, and chase any chance of nightmares away.”

“Oh, mhm, right,” William’s mouth turned up into a happy grin, tugging on his shirt to pull him down into a kiss.  

👕 to offer my muse your jacket on a chilly day

William had only been on the ship with Ellis for a short period of time now, having officially left his position of royalty and was no longer a captive on this ship but a volunteer passenger. He’d forgotten how brutal autumns on the ocean could be, his only few times being when he’d gone on a short voyage with the fleet or visited close kingdoms to settle disputes. Every time, though, he had every necessity he could possibly need, and was of course waited on hand and foot. Things were obviously different in many ways, but the spoils of royal life wasn’t the problem. It was a simple fact of him not having many clothes since he’d left his family behind for Ellis. He was stolen away in night clothes, and the only new ones he’d gotten since then were a few of Ellis’s as they hadn’t stopped anywhere since. When it came to the current conditions, Ellis didn’t have many cold weather items to spare, they didn’t fit the other man well which would make their purpose when trying to work and move around the ship useless, anything too noticeable would look bad – captains don’t just give their crew their own clothes. That’s where their predicament now lies.

For about a month it had been fine, William just hid away in Ellis’s room for the most part, and Ellis had seemed more than fine with that. After so long though, his short appearances – and for some periods, entire lack thereof – would become more noticeable. So, here he was, staying out longer and trying to ignore the glances of the still-suspicious crew. Ellis insisted he really didn’t care about what the others thought or complained about as far as William’s presence, he’d shut it down as soon as it began, but William was persistent on suggesting he show up.

So here he stood, shivering in a thin shirt and a pair of pants too long for him under the crisp autumn breeze. The spray of the sea water stung his skin each time it came up over the bow, but he stayed put, grinding his teeth as he saved face, pretending he was fine. Ellis knew better, though. He always knew better. He’d always be able to read William’s mind, no matter how hard he tried to hide his thoughts or feelings.

Ellis pursed his lips, looking around at the crew around them, half working in the cold. He rolled his eyes and huffed an exasperated sigh, tugging his thicker jacket off and threw it around William’s shoulders, pulling it forward and closing it around his front before he had the chance to detest. William looked up at Ellis with surprised eyes, sporadically looking around at the other members on deck. Some looked over, confusion written on their faces, but Ellis turned back with crossed arms and a stern look on his face. Most went back to working, save for a few lingering gazes, but as soon as they noticed their captain looking at them rather pointedly, they quickly returned.

He glanced back at William, and William’s face heated up, hiding his face in the collar and squeezing the jacket closer to him. Ellis grinned small, eyes soft at the sight before turning his eyes back to the deck, smile gone and facade corrected before anyone else could see. William smiled himself, expression hidden in the jacket, which was warm and smelled like his man. His eyes closed, and it took every logical reminder in his brain not to stand up against Ellis as he wished to. He’d just have to show his appreciation of the boldish risky gesture when they were alone.

🃏 for our muses to play a prank on someone else

“Shh, shh,” 13 year old William rushed out, looking around the room frantically, ensuring that no one has heard the two giggling teens.

“Are you sure about this?” Ellis asked, raising a brow at William with a smirk on his face.

William furrowed his brows, lips pressed together in an almost pout. Honestly, it was a good question. The boy wasn’t normally one to insist on inflicting any sort of suffering onto someone else, and often tried to talk Ellis out of those things; but still, that only worked half of the time, him either doing it anyway or somehow managing to convince William to go along with it anyway. He puffed up his chest, trying to make himself appear as tall as Ellis (an impossible feat, the boys were two years apart and Ellis had hit a growth spurt well before him, and seemed as if he’d grow to be pretty tall anyway), he had done his second guessing. He was in this. “Yes,” he finally said in a stubborn manner. Ellis shrugged then, more than happy with that.

They moved forward then, a little overly excited at setting up a mildly cruel prank on their least favorite tutor, aptly nicknamed The Vulture. Truth be told, at first she was fine in William’s eyes, but he knew a big part of it was that she had to be nice and kiss up, and her distaste for Ellis that seemed to only grow more and more made William hate her more and more. The slight guilt he felt about behaving badly would be well overshadowed by seeing how happy it’d make his best friend. He had decided that she kind of deserved it.

“Wait, did you –.” Before Ellis could finish, William held up the magnificent mud (and sticks and bugs) pie that they had created, soothing Ellis’s frantic look, a mischievous smile growing on his face. “Yes, I love you,” Ellis exclaimed in a whisper voice, wrapping an arm around him playfully and squeezing him. William’s face reddened and he smiled to himself, enjoying the half hug while it lasted. Ellis took the pie and headed to his station.

William kept a lookout while Ellis worked, quietly running between the two entrances to the room intermittently to check for the woman, or anyone else for that matter. The longer it took, the more nervous the boy got. What if they did get caught? Really, he shouldn’t be that nervous. In fact, William could even order her silence, but it was still just the act of doing something so disobedient that got his heart beating. When Ellis finally announced that he was done, William grinned at him and they scurried out of the room to hide behind a statue in the corridor while they waited for her to come around.

Even though they were even closer to each other than this almost every damn night, the closeness was still slightly distracting, even through their anticipation and excitement of the prank. He could feel Ellis’s eyes on him every few moments, and he bit his lip, trying to focus on the halls. “Oh!” William whispered, eyes widening, “here she comes.” Ellis giggled enthusiastically, and as soon as she entered the room, they ran to the doorway, squatting down and peaking in so that they could see the prank through.

“Look at that –,” Ellis whispered.

“– Front row seats,” William finished, grinning.

He grinned back before they both turned their eyes to The Vulture. She held papers in her hands, not even looking at the present on her desk, making this all the better. Ellis poked at William eagerly, and his excitement flooded William’s chest with happiness. The very second she sat down in her chair, it came crashing to the floor, the result of filing a notch almost all the way through two of the chair’s legs. The bowl of mud and other various ‘disgusting’ things that was tied to the arm of the chair came after, the porcelain knocking against her face and the mud spilling everywhere. This wasn’t the only thing to spill, though, her hot rice milk coming along with it, soaking her dresses and the ceramic shattering on the ground. She shrieked, and Ellis laughed out loud, falling out of his squat and onto the floor. William laughed along, finding his reaction better than the actual prank, laying on the ground and holding his belly as he fell apart in a fit of laughter.

“Ellis Moore!” she screamed. He’d never heard that octave from her before, or any woman, really. It sent shivers down his spine.

“No lessons tomorrow then?” William asked, standing up and making himself visible. This only resulted in more shrieking. “Come on,” William snickered, reaching out a hand for Ellis to grab, pulling him up. They ran down the hallway back toward their rooms, nearly tripping over themselves in laughter the whole way.

♡ to cuddle up with my muse (for warmth, obviously)

“You know, scary stories aren’t so scary from down here,” Ellis said with a chuckle, referring to William’s position straddling Ellis on the bed. They weren’t on land to enjoy any spooky festivities, but William had heard quite a few good creepy tales in his time on the sea, which Ellis had probably heard, but he wanted to partake in the telling of them anyway. He enjoyed this time of year, and he was happy to get to share it with Ellis this time around. “Or maybe you’re just a bad storyteller.”

“Oh, shall I move then?” William teased, beginning to lift himself off of the man’s hips and move away from him. He didn’t make it very far, though, before Ellis had grabbed him in both arms and pulled him down against the bed. William laughed and pushed against his chest, holding his face away from Ellis’s as he tried to kiss him. “No,” William argued, “I’m a bad storyteller.” He couldn’t officially wipe the smile off of his face though, which made him mad as he tried to play serious. “No.” He repeated the word as Ellis tried to kiss him, insisting on pushing him off of him.

That was, until Ellis rolled them off of their sides and pushed William onto his back, settling between his legs and pinning his arms above his head. William fought back a moan in response to Ellis overpowering him, a quiet grunt in the back of his throat the result of it. Ellis looked way too pleased with himself, leaning in for the kiss he was fighting for. As he neared, William used his own power and rolled his hips up into Ellis’s, laughing as he stilled right away, inches away from William’s lips.

“This is what you get,” William whispered, laughing quietly at Ellis’s expression. “Nothing.” He dropped his head into the crook of William’s neck and sighed, resulting in another snicker from William.

“It’s only that you’re too cute to pay attention to,” Ellis supplied, lifting his head to look at William again.

William considered this, narrowing his eyes at the man. “Hmm… Fine.” He grinned softly and lifted his head off the bed to press a slow, but chaste kiss to Ellis’s mouth. He could feel him smiling against his lips, and he pulled back. “Acceptable.” He pulled his arms from the grasp Ellis had on him and pushed him back over. He cuddled into his side, a cold hand resting on his chest.

“I love you,” Ellis said with a smile. He lifted the heavy blanket that had been thrown away amongst their play fighting over them and pulled William closer to him.

Falling into Ellis’s hold, he soaked up all of his warmth and smiled against his chest. “I love you, too.”

Midnight Blue

Part 3 of my Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels series.

Always nice to hear from readers who enjoy season 13 Sabriel drama as much as I do. I can also be found on Fanfiction.net, Archive of Our Own, and Wattpad. Same name.

DISCLAIMER: The material upon which the following story is based is the intellectual property of the CW network.

WARNING: This story contains themes of sexual assault. …

Gabriel was getting really, really sick of the nightmares.

He would wake at two in the morning, three in the morning, four in the morning - and the bunker would be silent, and the silence would choke him, and he wouldn’t go back to sleep.

He shouldn’t have had to sleep at all. This whole thing could have been a brutal tactic administered by the Trickster himself: the fragments of grace that needed rest and food in order to replenish as quickly as possible, broken down further by the evasiveness of sleep and appetite.

And the degradation of being so close to human, even with the promise of eventual relief should he commit to the healing process along, certainly didn’t help.

Now and again he would hear people moving around in the halls and in other rooms. He knew Sam spent too much time awake these days as well, fighting tooth and nail for more information on how to find his brother and rescue him from Michael’s possession. Gabriel would have offered more assistance if only he’d had the energy. He could barely muster the strength to talk, partly because he was exhausted and partly because the nightmares made him afraid of speech.

Of course, he was well aware that no one here was going to do anything like what Asmodeus had done. Gabriel felt reassured every time he remembered that he was no longer in Hell. But much of him was still lost behind the bars of his cage that instinct overrode logic, so that he simply couldn’t bring himself to risk punishment.

When Gabriel heard Sam’s footsteps, he was always tempted to ask for help. Sam had given it before, when Gabriel got his attention by falling out of bed or unexpectedly getting sick. Gabriel knew that Sam wouldn’t judge him, wouldn’t hurt him.

But Gabriel also knew that it wouldn’t do him any good to grow accustomed to Sam’s post-nightmare guidance. Gabriel needed to learn to deal with this independently; otherwise, he wouldn’t get past any of this.

Voluntarily seeking comfort was humiliating enough to hurt what grace he did have. He felt sure that reaching out would bring him closer to humanness. And the nearer he drew, the more he would have to sleep in order to function. The more he would dream.

And the farther he would fall.

Gabriel couldn’t let that happen. So when the dreams jerked him awake every night without pause, he lay in bed, heart pounding and stomach pitching with nausea, trying to remind himself that he’d be fine. That this was all just temporary.

But once in a while, he couldn’t just lie in bed - not when the dreams were bad enough. He wished he had the courage to fight, but the simple truth was that he didn’t.

When that happened, when there was nothing to be done except beg for help, Gabriel did what he could to keep his dignity intact. The cracks were all too visible: it was as though he’d fixed himself up with Elmer’s glue and bubble gum. But the pieces weren’t entirely disconnected, and he intended to maintain at least the smallest illusion of wholeness.

Yet despite knowing that Sam was awake and would have been perfectly willing to do whatever Gabriel asked, Sam was busy. Sam was in pain. Gabriel wasn’t going to pull him away from work that was far more important than events that had already happened, events that couldn’t be stopped. Sure, such events had left Gabriel a mess, but the events themselves were over and done with.

No need to focus on the past when there were bigger things to worry about.

So Gabriel had gone to his brother whenever these particularly brutal dreams forced him into a state of near-madness. Castiel was careful, attentive, affectionate without scaring him. When Gabriel went looking for him, barely able to stand upright, Cas usually found him first. Sometimes Gabriel suspected his brother had been assisting Sam with research but had a quick instinct for Gabriel’s distress.

The whole thing was disgusting, pointless. He never should have been reduced to such a state of desperation. But Cas knew he felt that way and responded accordingly, as if he’d been handling this kind of thing for years.

Gabriel didn’t feel deprived when he couldn’t ask Sam for help. It was only when he woke and knew that, should he choose, he could have sought out Sam, that he regretted having to make the right decision and leave him alone.

But there came one night when Gabriel no longer cared about making the right decision.

The dream took place in his cell. He experienced the usual panic of returning to the world he thought he had left behind. He tried to run away, just as he always did. He attempted to scream against the sweaty hand pressed to his mouth as the demon prince forced their bodies together, the cement floor grinding into the back of Gabriel’s skull as he fought to keep his eyes shut, afraid to watch what was happening.

There was nothing strange about this dream. It was the familiar narrative, the same memory.

Yet something changed as Asmodeus lay on top of him. The weight, the smell, the shape of his hands -

It wasn’t Asmodeus.

In the dream, Gabriel opened his eyes.

The gaze that met his was so familiar and yet so livid with madness that the dream froze in place, and Gabriel woke with that image blotted against the darkness.

He couldn’t breathe properly, but somehow he managed to make it across the room, where he crashed into the door. When he succeeded in pulling it open, he forgot which way he was supposed to go and for a moment couldn’t remember where he was, who he was even looking for, whether he would be penalized for leaving his room.

Gabriel got halfway down the hall before tripping, giving a strangled cry of terror, and pressing his palms to the wall - why, he could not be sure; perhaps he was looking for something to hold onto.

He couldn’t see. He tried to draw breath and no breath would come. He made choked whimpers, incapable of screaming for help - just as in the nightmare.

It was the gentleness that pulled him out of it. The tentative warmth of someone’s hand over his own, still tight against the wall.

Gabriel looked up. His throat ached and his body was soaked in sweat.

Sam lifted Gabriel’s hand and held it, eyes bright with concern in his pale, exhausted face.

Gabriel coughed against the violent stinging in his throat. His breaths came quick and hoarse.

“Can you stand up?” Sam asked, still gripping his hand.

Gabriel shook his head.

Sam looked worried. “What’s going on, Gabriel?”

It took several seconds for Gabriel to even remember how to speak, and when he could finally talk, his voice had the same sound that crushed bugs would have made if they could offer last words. “Not - not okay.”

Sam studied him, alert for signs that this had been anything other than a bad dream or hallucination.

Gabriel almost wished it was. He didn’t want Sam to feel he’d stopped working for no reason.

But Sam didn’t appear irritated at all. “Let’s go back to your room, okay? Actually - ” He peered more closely at Gabriel’s face. “Gabriel, you’re soaking wet. What do you think about rinsing off before we go, huh?” He paused. “Unless you can’t.”

Gabriel knew what he was talking about. There were nights he refused to take his clothes off, even if no one was looking.

“It’s not that,” Gabriel croaked. “It’s - ” His hand tightened around Sam’s.

Understanding colored Sam’s face. “I get it. Now’s not a good time to be alone.” His other hand came up to brush against Gabriel’s shoulder. “It’s okay. That’s okay. Come with me.”

Gabriel let Sam help him to his feet before collapsing a second time. Sam half-dragged him back down the other half of the hallway.

When Gabriel was situated on the bed, Sam sat down beside him, leaving enough distance that Gabriel wouldn’t feel threatened.

There were a few moments of silence. Sam was waiting for Gabriel to speak. But Gabriel’s lips were clenched and in his head there was no language, only static.

Sam spoke softly. “Something’s really wrong, isn’t it? Tell me. You know I can help, Gabriel. Please.”

Gabriel shuddered. “I’m sorry. I am. I go to Cas. If I go at all. Sometimes I - I try but I need - ” Gabriel shivered harder. “He helps me but - but not tonight.” His throat tightened. “I don’t want him. He was in the dream.”

Sam frowned. “You’ve been going to Cas?” 
“I just - sometimes I can’t do it.” Gabriel’s breathing grew tight and shallow. “I can’t.”

“You can’t what? It’s been a month since you got here - is this just not letting up? At all?”

“I’m sorry, Sam.” He lowered his head to his knees and clutched them to his chest, fearing Sam’s sudden irritation.

“No - no Gabriel, I’m not upset! I’m not!”

With some reluctance, Gabriel lifted his head. He could feel sweat pouring down his face again. God, he must look disgusting. Maybe not even that much different from when he first arrived.

“Everything’s fine, Gabe,” Sam assured him. “I just wanted to know why you didn’t come to me before now. That’s all. I promise. I’m not angry.” He gave a small smile. “Hey, listen, it was about time for a break. I wasn’t getting anywhere. You did me a favor.”

Gabriel relaxed a little. He disentangled his arms and legs so that he was sitting more comfortably. Although his heart was still pounding, he thought he could try to put himself at ease if Sam was telling the truth.

“Did you - ” Sam hesitated. Then: “You said you had a dream about Cas?”

Or not.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Sam pressed. “Do you usually tell Cas about your nightmares?”

Gabriel tried to hold the image of the dream at bay. “I don’t normally tell him anything. Everything’s the same ninety percent of the time.” He sighed. “What’re you gonna do, you know? Just gotta … gotta let it run its course.”

“Okay,” Sam agreed, “So it’s like when you have a fever. And there’s nothing to be done unless it spikes and things get dangerous.”

“Something like that.” Gabriel shifted so that he was leaning against the pillow. “I go to Cas because it’s not like he needs to sleep. And he knows what he’s talking about.” Gabriel rolled his eyes. “For the most part, anyway. With him I have to speak Castiel-ese unless I’m up for explaining a pun before it’s even over.” A pause, and then: “He does a good job. He’s seen his fair share of crap.”

“Yeah, he has.”

“But - ” Despite the sweat, he suddenly felt cold. “Maybe that’s what happens if you spend too much time with someone. At least when you’re like this. It was only a matter of time before my sick mind turned on me and used what good memories were there to make everything even uglier.”

“I think I get it,” Sam replied. “Lucifer pulled that all the time.”

“And it’s not like I didn’t see more than enough of that when Asmodeus still had me. It’s different now that - now that everything else is different.” He looked Sam in the eyes. “I didn’t want to see it. Not him. Not Cas. He would never - would never do - I mean - ” He swallowed against a surge of nausea. “I know. I know that. But - god, Sam, it’s all so gross! All of it. And right now Cas seems gross too. And I needed - I needed - ”

“It’s okay.” But then Sam hesitated. “Gabriel, hey - don’t let this get out of hand. Do whatever you have to do to keep yourself from getting lost in whatever it was you just saw.” He was thinking, Gabriel knew, of other nights when Gabriel had refused to utter a word or been so sick he nearly passed out.

“I won’t,” Gabriel replied, but not with the firmness he had intended. Then he gave a frustrated sigh. “Ah, damn it, Sam; I know you need to sleep. You need it more than me. So I hope you know how much I appreciate you humoring me here.”

“I can’t sleep either,” Sam told him with a sad smile.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need it. But I won’t push. I don’t want to accidentally convince you to leave.”

“You couldn’t.”

Gabriel grimaced. “On a scale of Jack to Asmodeus, how pissed are you gonna be if I say I’m sorry again?”

“Can we settle for a halfway point at Dean?”

Maybe Sam thought that Gabriel wouldn’t notice the flicker of sadness at Dean’s name. “Sam …”

Sam waved a hand. “It’s fine; I didn’t come to talk about me. At least … I didn’t come to talk about that.” He straightened his posture. “Anyway, we’ll get him back. We will. We always figure something out.”

“If you can save the world,” Gabriel said softly, “You can save your brother.”

Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. “I know.”

“And when I’m better - ” Gabriel started, but Sam interrupted. “I know we roped you in before but this is different. I didn’t realize how much rest you were going to need. Don’t,” he added as Gabriel opened his mouth to apologize. “We’re fine on our own. If we get desperate enough, we’ll ask for help.”

Gabriel’s instinct was to protest, to insist that the moment he felt more like himself he would jump in and fight back against his egomaniacal brother.

At the same time, he knew that Sam wouldn’t reject Gabriel’s offer unless he genuinely wanted to. This was about Dean, after all. If Sam needed Gabriel as part of the anti-Michael task force, he’d be demanding it.

“Hey.” Sam’s voice broke into his thoughts. “What do you think about trying to go back to sleep? I know you don’t like to, but it wouldn’t hurt to break the habit.”

Gabriel squirmed. “Look, Sam. I want my grace back as much as anyone. More than all y’all put together. And it’s not like I haven’t drained it even more just by trying to fall asleep, all right? So thanks, but I’ll pass.”

Sam bit his lip. “Okay. I know nothing I say will change your mind.”

“That’s right. It won’t.”

In the silence that followed, Gabriel felt something like guilt.

“Look,” he said in a gentler voice, “I know you’re trying, Sam. When the world gained a good hunter, the populace lost a good psychiatrist. But you don’t have to wring yourself out for me, not when you’ve got all this other crap going on. It’s not like you need any more angel-induced BS in your life. There’s the occasional - the occasional - this,” he said lamely, gesturing to his sweat-soaked body, “But for the most part all I really need is for you to ride it out with me. Keep me company. Otherwise, yeah, I’m gonna get stuck in a graceless brain with nothing to pull me out of it. The whole thing is embarrassing, but, hey, I’ve been in more awkward situations.” Gabriel hesitated. “All right, that’s not true. This is a new low. But still. What can you do?”

Sam frowned. “I’m not pushing myself that hard. I wouldn’t push harder than I could go.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not lying!”

“All right, fine; then you’re just really good at lying to yourself. Anyway, I won’t lecture you any more. I’m happy you don’t mind. Really. I know I … I would have no patience for myself.”

“That’s because Asmodeus taught you that you were worthless.” Sam’s voice was quiet, careful.

“Maybe.” Gabriel was growing tired again - a feeling he hated, still hadn’t quite gotten used to, found totally degrading - but rest was out of the question. “What about you? How’re you doing, kiddo?”

Sam looked away. “I’m not really interested in talking about me.”

“Hmm. I guess I’m not in much of a position to counsel.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, and that was all it took.

Asmodeus whispered to him. Gabriel could feel his hands on either shoulder. Could smell his breath.

And Castiel. Castiel forced him to remain still, ran his fingers over the twine in Gabriel’s lips, held him down until he couldn’t breathe.

Blue eyes flaming with hunger. A smile stretched too wide across usually gentle features.

“Hey, Gabriel - hey, buddy - come on, easy. Easy. It’s okay.”

Gabriel had collapsed into Sam’s side, shaking uncontrollably, his vision walled off by that hideous grinning face. He heard himself whimpering. He was weak, unable to sit up on his own.

“It’s okay,” Sam said again, wrapping an arm around him.

Gabriel thought he might be sick. There was no breath entering his lungs, no way for him to talk.

“Hey hey hey!” Sam moved him so that he could examine Gabriel’s face. “Gabriel, everything’s okay. I promise. Just calm down.”

Gabriel tried to say that he couldn’t, but words wouldn’t come.

He retched.

“Gabriel, breathe, man! I know you can do this! You’ve done it before! Come back to me!” Sam shook his shoulder.

Gabriel heaved a second time, heard Sam say “God damn it,” and knew nothing more until he found himself kneeling in front of the toilet with Sam holding him in a sitting position.

“Gabriel, please. Please don’t let yourself get so lost like this. Focus on me.”

Sam was angry with him.

Gabriel shook his head, trying to get Sam to understand that he was sorry, that he didn’t want to get hurt. Not now. Not again.

Especially since throwing up had been extremely problematic when Asmodeus was around. He’d had to really learn to fight it once his mouth was sewn shut. Getting sick meant getting beaten, or choked, or -

Gently, so as not to make the nausea worse, Sam wrapped his arms around Gabriel’s waist. “What’s going on in your head, man? Why won’t you talk to me?”

It was funny that, despite everything else being so slow-going, Gabriel no longer flinched when Sam touched him. Even when Sam didn’t ask before reaching out. Which didn’t happen often, but sometimes - like now - had to be done.

Sam seemed to have a sense of what Gabriel was feeling. “Gabe, I’m not mad, all right? Scared. Not mad.”

Gabriel breathed a little more easily, letting Sam keep him in place, still feeling nauseated and yet terrified of what might happen if he gave in to it.

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “It’s okay. I’m right here. You can get sick if you need to. It’s just me.”

Even if Sam hadn’t spoken, Gabriel doubted he’d have been capable of holding it in for much longer. He spent several agonizing, humiliating minutes heaving everything he’d managed to eat that day into the toilet. He hadn’t had much, of course - but enough. Despite Sam’s words of reassurance, despite his strong but gentle grasp, Gabriel’s instincts told him to brace for the worst. Especially given that it had been so hard for him to stay balanced, and now there was a mess to clean up.

“It’s all right, Gabriel,” Sam soothed. “It’s all right.”

The more he said it, the further Gabriel relaxed in his grip. Maybe it was the sound of Sam’s voice against those ringing in his head.

Asmodeus. Castiel.

“Good?” Sam asked when Gabriel had gone a full minute without gagging.

Gabriel only fell back against him in response, wishing neither of them had to move. What little energy he’d had was now gone. He didn’t even have the strength to keep shivering.

“Come on,” Sam murmured, shifting so that he could stand up and bring Gabriel with him. “Just hold onto me.”

As he had done earlier, Sam supported Gabriel until they were back in the bedroom.

As much as Gabriel didn’t want to, he lay down, because after vomiting he couldn’t even sit upright.

There was a knock at the door. Then a familiar voice: “Sam? Gabriel? What’s going on?”
 Gabriel shot up.

Castiel stood at the door, peering in with confusion and worry in his face.

“I got it,” Sam said hastily, and hurried over to Castiel, whose expression turned to one of surprise. Sam drew him out into the hallway and Gabriel heard them talking in low voices, but blocked out what they were saying. Seeing Castiel’s face had -

“Gabriel. Hey. Gabe. He’s gone.”

The voice came as though from a great distance, but it was there. Gabriel blinked, vision clearing.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Sam must have noticed the guilt in Gabriel’s eyes, because he said, “Cas is fine. He’s around if you want him; otherwise, he can stay away. He understands.”

“It’s not him. Not really.”

“He gets that, Gabe. It’s all good.”

Gabriel was tempted to sit back against the pillows, but instead he sat up to look at the clock. 4:49.

Well, if he wasn’t going to go to sleep - and he wasn’t - he would start the day three hours early. Read, maybe. Find something to get him at least a little ways away from his own brain.

“I’m all right, Sam,” he said. “Go to sleep.” He was lying, of course. He still felt afraid. Sick. Scared to be by himself. But he was well enough to survive without someone else in the room.

“It’s too late to go to sleep,” Sam replied. “Actually, I was thinking maybe we could go into the kitchen and, I don’t know, have tea, maybe.” He gave a small smile. “I’d offer you something stronger, but … probably not the best way to put yourself back together.”

“You’re no fun.” Gabriel pushed himself up off the bed, but struggled to stand upright, still exhausted both from his nightmare and the sickness it had engendered. “All right, if you really wanna go, I’ll come with you. You better not be making this up just because you feel sorry for me.”

Sam took Gabriel by the shoulders in order to keep him steady. “I’m not.”

Gabriel hesitated. “Is he out there? Castiel?”

“No. I told him to wait in his room. He’s fine, Gabe. Really.”

Gabriel had a sense that that wasn’t true; after all, Castiel had always been more sensitive to rejection than the rest of the family. Gabriel knew he must have hurt his brother’s feelings. But was there anything to be done just then?

One problem at a time.

“You’re too nice for your own good,” said Gabriel as they made their way toward the door, Gabriel doing everything he could to support himself but letting Sam guide him. “It’s gonna get you killed one of these days.”

“We’ll see. I’m not as nice as I used to be.” There was no regret in his voice, only observation.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Gabriel told him. “You’re a good kid.”

The images from Gabriel’s dream were dying down now. Maybe the movement - this time leading to something good - helped to clear his head.

He tried not to think about Castiel. Tried not to think of the guilt that trod just behind the terror.

He was sick of the nightmares. But at least no one was here to make them worse, to perpetuate them, to leave no boundary between dreams and consciousness. For now, he could appreciate that much.

For now, he would take what help he could get.

❌ + An episode of rage where Warwick hurts Laure to near death :^) I hate me

Tales of the Howler | Accepting

Characters - Warwick and Laurelleen

Word Count - 3,655

Description - Moments of anguish bloom into spasmodic fury as the beast lashes out, confused, frightened and enraged as old pain resurfaces. How unfortunate, then, for those present.

People seldom ventured down into the recesses of Zaun, so far from the surface that the grey overcast from vent stacks and clustered buildings prevent a majority of the sun’s light from reaching the chemical-bleached brick thoroughfares. Thus dingy regions like the Sump are bathed in a brew of perpetual twilight and the sickening greenish illumination of chemlights. Said chem-lumens providing the muddled light that favored shady dealings between Barons and ragtag gangs. And to make matters worse, pockets of Gray settle here and there as palpable asphyxiating miasmas. But these hazards were commonplace, and Zaunites had adapted to adapting their day-to-day to accommodate for their city’s dangers. They were not the reason no one dared traverse a collection of blocks located towards the very bottom. Claimed by Zaun’s resident nightmare decades ago, most of those that once lived in the various hovels and apartments vacated posthaste. The same was true for store owners and any unlawful element too stupid to realize the gap in strength between them and the Howler. Some chose to stay, though, out of necessity rather than anything else. Those no better than the gangs and cutthroats suffering a gruesome end not long after. Thus said streets were bereft of the hustle and bustle of the slums’ vibrant culture, a ubiquitous quietude broken only by the occasional pedestrian or foolish drunkard. All living in fear, awe as well, of the abomination that’d made its den in their neighborhood–none brave enough to cross into the immediate vicinity of where he roosted. None except for a comely woman, that is. Much to the few remaining residents’ confusion, a woman of incredulous curves and delicate disposition that’d fit in up in Piltover rather than down in the depths of Zaun frequented the center of the predator’s territory. And she did so without hesitance or trepidation, confident in her hip-swaying gait. There was always a radiance about her like a newlywed, as well as a genuine happiness foreign to the area. Due to this, rumors cropped up regarding her identity: an insane, suicidal woman, a crazed cultist paying homage to the Howler, a bizarre scientist or inventor hoping to find some inspiration from the augmented horror, and some even claimed that she was a restless spirit of one of the beast’s victims. Whether or not any of these were true, though, was anyone’s guess. For no one had the courage to follow her or call out to her, not after she’d crossed that territorial threshold so many times–she’d surely pass on whatever derangement she’d contracted. So this became the norm for them, watching Laurelleen come and go with curious eyes. Waiting for the day she didn’t return from wherever she went in the Howler’s stomping grounds.

In spring, Warwick preoccupied himself by stalking the roofs, alleys and shadows of Zaun’s streets. Today was no different. From atop a chemlight sign protruding from the side of a building in front of a dingy backstreet, he observed a myriad of Zaunites. They crossed the thoroughfare in question in droves, a road situated near the Black Lanes, often bumping shoulders with one another due to the lack of open space. Stalls and open storefronts did naught but compound the situation, as they manifested gaggles of individuals at any given moment. There was a broth of sweat, unwashed faces and soiled clothes, oil and chemicals, whatever cheap artificial fragrances women at this depth managed to afford, and innumerable layers that took a trained nose to pick out. Every sound, down to the jangle of cogs swapping hands, found its way to his perked ears. His lips seemed to sag as he lowered himself against the width of the sign’s frame, eyes scrolling from the left to the right again and again. Shimmerwine wafting off the mouths of drunkards parches the mongrel’s throat, causing his tongue to dart out and moisten his snout. He can taste the air, it’s laden with crimes. There’s glinting metal as lumens reflect off augmentations and prosthetic limbs, off overt weaponry and evinced cogs. They smelt of grease and blood–Zaun’s true currency. Were it not for the sickly glow of his chamber, the shadows would’ve encapsulated his hulking frame like a shroud. Lucky for him, then, that few people had the wherewithal to look up. Boisterous laughter caught the beast’s attention and he snaps to, eyes narrowing before exposing either canine. His ears leaned forward and a meaty paw reached over to curl razor claws around the edge of the advertisement. There’s a burly bear of a man standing amid a small crowd of onlookers. He’s entertaining them with feats of strength, showing off a new prosthetic that’d replaced his right arm. This impressed enough people to garner him enough leg room to perform. People marveled at the mechanisms of the arm, unaware of the ichor that lingered on its metal. Just how do they think such a goon came across the appendage? How many crushed skulls and slit throats did it take to garner that many cogs? Seven? Eleven? Barons paid the ones that smelt more like death better than the rest, and he was rife with misdeeds. No amount of tricks or toothy smiles could fool Warwick. Teeth like daggers grind together as he slinks onto all fours and crosses the length of the sign, hopping and scrambling up to the roof of the building. His head hangs low below his shoulders, chin almost touching the shingles, as he skirted the ledge. Mucus green sclera glare at the man as he continues to spout drivel, boasting about one thing or another. The cretin’s neck would fit nicely in his maw. Scarlet life ebbing and splattering the ground as the source of his pride flails at his hide uselessly. Light draining from his eyes as Warwick thrashed and throttled the brute until finally breathing his last. But there were too many people around him. Thieves and cutthroats were among them, yes, but those untouched by blood were interspersed in the crowd. They didn’t deserve to get caught up in the carnage. A rumble from below, his stomach ached.(Would it really be so awful if a few died?) He shook his head and snarled, reaching a paw up to clasp the side of his visage. Jagged tips pierced the skin and the suffused anguish cleared his mind. Going in now would mean countless lives lost that needn’t have been; going in now would mean a bloodbath, an absolute massacre of the masses. (A little taste wouldn’t hurt.) The beast gnashed his teeth before barking at nothing in particular, a rancorous sound that startled those below. It halted the performance of the brute and drew pedestrians’ eyes towards the roofs. But by the time their gaze settled, he’d already backed away from the edge. He forced himself to slink back to the building behind the one he’d taken up position on, gait stiff and awkward. He needed to get away from here before something he’d regret took place–needed to return home. Something to stay his appetite before blood not meant to be shed was there.

Slipping off the lip of a roof’s skirt, Warwick landed on all fours. There was a deafening impact like a small bomb going off as his immense weight cracked the kilned clay, as well as a cloud of grey dust. The particulate kicked up swirled around his frame and about his snout like insignificant bugs. Something began tickling the back of his sinuses, then, and no amount of head shaking could quell it. He snuffled for a moment before inhaling once, twice, thri–a sneeze! His body yanked back in response to the sudden jerk of his neck, the cloud diffusing from where he resided. Blinking several times, he shook his whole body for a moment before snorting and snuffling. Then he rose up onto his hind legs, pawing at his snout while sauntering towards the building in front of him. It’s on the taller side given the fact the other structures around it were one-story hovels and abandoned homes, appropriate given it once served as a pub for several blocks. But the windows had been blown out of their frames, latticeworks long since decayed to naught, and whatever hadn’t already been stolen was scattered out around the front. That’s what it use to be, at least. As of late, though, an emphasis had been placed on tidiness in and around the den, his home. What’d been outside in decay had either been pulled back inside, if it were in good enough condition, or were broken down to use as kindling for fires. He’d never needed them before, but now they were necessary for cooking. Something he’d had no use for until meeting Laurelleen. His mate, his love–his heart and soul, the woman that made him want to stay in control. She insisted that she decorated his, their home. Thus venturing out into Zaun numerous times when able to procure new furnishings, apparel and the like. And when she found the materials and time, she created decorations to adorn the walls with, of which he spotted as he stomped through the doorway. Whether they were bouquets garnered over time and placed in a metal vase or drawings of the wilderness, she found ways to simultaneously preoccupy herself and spruce up their abode while he was out hunting. A sharp pain jabbed his midriff as a low rumble resounded from his gut, eliciting the audible grinding of teeth. There’s a shift of glass and metal as the chambers perform a single revolution, liquid churning like tomato soup. They emitted an intermingled shade of lemonade and mucus, locked in a struggle for dominance that worsened every step up the stairs to the second story. Forget-Me-Nots and whatever other flowers Laurelleen managed to acquire over the years they’d spent together did little to help. Burnt copper lingered like a pertinacious tick, that metallic odor, blood and ichor–it brought rage, it brought hunger, it brought the beast. Boulders smashing against each other flowed from the back of his throat as he leaned against the wall, a paw clasping the side of his head. Flecks of crimson began worming their way into the caustic mixture oozing through his tubes. Several more steps and he was but a foot or so away from the landing. But he stopped after another stride, gnashing his teeth while slamming his cranium against the wood. They groaned like the staircase had under his weight, each impact shaking puffs of dust from the rafters. “Darling?” a soft voice brimming with concern called. “What’s the matter?” Either ear perked up, a jangle of metal emanating from the leftmost, at Laurelleen’s voice. Her tone was soothing, ethereal even, his sole comfort in such a muddled state of mind. “Fine…” Warwick drawled. Yet another vigorous shake of his head and he ascended the final step, eyes still swimming in the clashing hues. Sluggish was his gait, every pace drawn out by how he drug his feet across the floor. The clacking of nails was replaced with slow scrapping. He rounded a corner and gazed through the door at the end of a hallway. Orange-red incandescence radiated from within as a fire crackled and popped, wood burning and meat cooking wafting from the opening. His back straightened and head jerked up at the scent of seared flesh. Saliva inched down the corners of his mouth. The streaks of crimson waned with the lemonade right on its heels. Loud footfalls carried him across the distance in no time at all, slowing only to duck under the doorway. Orbs of yellowish green were greeted by the sight of his lover standing in front of a table next to a pot-bellied stove that’d been installed a year prior, knife in hand. Little fabric save for an apron clung to her voluptuous curves, thus exposing her backside. Countless scars and bruises, loving marks made during moments of intense passion, marred her hips and buttocks. Five large gashes carved down her back from between her shoulder blades to just below her waist–ones such as these would never fully heal. She turned to glance behind her, knitted brow belying her joyous mien, while tending to a slab of meat. “Are you s–ah!” The lamb yanked her opposite arm away from the table and cutting board, letting the knife clatter before pulling a hand to her chest. Warwick smelt it before he saw the scarlet flowing from a laceration on the tip of her forefinger. Whirring that’d begun to die down revved up anew, screaming as jets of steam spewed from the main chamber and stars smoldered in his eye sockets. He saw red in an instant–a bright, burning crimson. Her eyes darted over to him, widening. Insufferable heat suffused his body as a click broke the momentary quietude. There wasn’t time for him to register before the mechanisms plunged into his back, forcing alchemical rage throughout his veins. Searing anguish emanated from the gauntlet as it glowed white hot, metal scrapping as the claws elongated. Every muscle contracted, body language contorting as his spinal column screeched in agony, forcing him onto all fours, back arched farther than it should’ve been. “Sweetie wait–!” The pain bubbled up his throat and bellowed, deafening him to her plea. Coiled muscle in his hind legs released their tension and propelled him forward, claws outstretched. His prey backpedaled, foot catching on the other and causing them to stumble. They fell back against the edge of the table, crying out before hitting the floor. A roar met them like resounding thunder as he crossed the gap in a split second. But he missed his target, crashing through the back wall. Zaun’s Gray-laden atmosphere superimposed itself onto the profuse fragrance of his den, still an undercurrent to the maddening ichor. Claws punctured brick as he skidded to a halt across the thoroughfare. Immediately, his head snapped up before spinning around to face the building anew. His nostrils flared as he snuffled the air, a odorous trail leading back to the hole he just made. Gaseous fumes leaked from the tear ducts of narrowed eyes. (Prey!) His ears straightened as the sound of hobbling feet found their way to them–he threw his head back and loosed a guttural howl into the midday ether. Dashing back through the front door, a shower of splinters cascaded across the floor as he wrenched his bulky frame through the ill-proportioned entrance. There wasn’t even any time for the wood to bemoan the application of force. The Gray from outside mingled with the interior’s aroma, vying for dominance. Decorations and apparel blended together into a ubiquitous smear of shades of red, orange and yellow. They elicited an incessant nagging at the margins of his psyche, some small voice telling him he had to go elsewhere. That something of vital importance lived here, someone paramount to him. But the voice was drowned out by the secondary chamber plunging into his back at the sound of wood creaking. (HUNGRY!) His arms and legs acted without thinking, digging through the floor and lurching him into motion. Stray chairs and tables were thrown clear as he barreled towards the back. The walls of a staircase meant for thinner frames did little to hamper his progress as he ascended several steps at a time. Blood, it was closer than ever–looking out the corner of his peripherals evinced the lamb. That voice came through again but he shunted it aside. “Warwick I–” Their voice was cut off by a roar. He yanked an arm from under him and swiped it towards their legs, breaking through the bars of the railing like they weren’t there. They pushed away from the stairs a moment too late, his bronze-gilded swords carving several red streaks across the back of their calves and sending them to their knees a foot or so away. Said digits then curled and found purchase in the floorboards to begin hauling the rest of his body up and over. (KILL!)  His prey tried to scramble back onto their feet, but crimson bled from the gashes and took the wind out of their sails. In the following instant, he surmounted the lip and towered over the lamb on the landing. They looked up at the beast through watery eyes. He could make out his reflection, distorted. Warwick reared back and howled again, keening, before regarding the prey anew. Their arms were held up in front of them, and either leg was pulled up to their chest. (Stop…) Deeper the plungers delved, drowning him in a deluge of chemicals. BITEBITEBITEBITEBITEBITEBITE– With a bellow, his left paw rose over his head and careened down. The tips of his claws passed through the wall the lamb’s back was pressed to like butter. He slammed down onto the crease between her legs, rupturing skin and fracturing bone. They screamed something–a name, perhaps? His fingers curled around her calf, forcing their way under before jerking to one side. The side of their head smacked the wall as he wrenched their legs open. Stamping the ground, snorting, he knelt forward and pinned the leg he held to the same surface. Then he reached forward to try and grab hold of their arms. But his prey fought back, repeating that same sound over and over again as they batted his paws away. He roared at the headache their voice begot, briefly tearing at the side of his face before swinging their gilded nails across them. More life essence filled his nostrils as fabric tore and flesh split, scarlet splattering the floor in an arc. Several lacerations tore through the linen apron and cut into the lamb’s abdomen. MOREMOREMOREMOREMOREMORE– His other paw streaked down and slammed into her midriff, expelling the air from their lungs and snapping a rib in the process. Then he balled up said fist before wrenching back to rip the cloth off his prey. Porcelain skin progressively stained more red was exposed, incredulous curves evinced to the world. And yet no one rational enough to appreciate them. Tears streaked down the lamb’s cheek as they continued to cry, screaming a name, words he couldn’t hear over the rushing of blood in his ears.  (Don’t…) The gauntlet-armored fist slammed into the board just next to their head as his jaws opened wide, unhinging to stretch even farther. Saliva dripped from wicked canines onto succulent alabaster flesh, hovering in place for a moment before his head plunged down. But just as he did, the prey shot their upper torso up to smash into his barreled chest. Chunks of wood filled his maw as the lamb’s head forced itself into the crook of his neck. It felt familiar, tugged at numbed heartstrings. Before then reaching up with either arm to wrap around both their head and his throat, digging into his collar with razor talons of its own. Almost immediately after, they thrashed their pinned leg about until something else cracked and could slip out from under his knee. Afterwards, both their legs reached up to lock around his midriff the best they could. Warwick reared back and stood on either knee, shaking and barking at the lamb now squished against him. Pillowy mounds and silky, plush flesh mushed against coarse fur and stony muscle. He spit out the wood and gnashed his teeth violently, snapping mere inches away from their ear, thrashing his head about in futile attempts to reach the prey. Sometimes he caught a few strands of golden hair between his teeth, always tearing them out after. But their position left him physically incapable. BITEBITEHARDERFASTERBITEEATEATBITE– The lamb’s whole body tremble as scarlet oozed from open wounds, yet they clung to him. Even as he shot up onto his feet and began slamming against the wall from every which way, they clung on. All while whispering some mantra between sobs into the ring of missing hair around his neck. (KILLB ITEEATBITEBITEE ATEATKILL!) Wood groaned with every impact of his body, with every stomp of his feet. It was like trying to shake off a bag that’d wrapped around his head. Sometimes he tried to get his paws on them to rip her off, but the exponential pain that suffused his joints when he tried to bend his limbs in such a manner always deterred him in the end. (EATBITEB  Itekillkil   lbitebitebiteeatkill…) Breathing became a laborious endeavor as the lamb’s arms tightened around his neck, slowing his vehement thrashing until he stood on all fours again, fingers digging into the floor. His constant howling and bawling dwindled to ragged panting, mouth lolled open as slobber continued to drool down the sides. “I’mhereI’mhereI’mhereI’mhere–” she murmured. The world no longer burned like a bonfire of warm reds and oranges. Everything was still tinted crimson and the searing anguish ravaging his back remained, but the droning cacophony of the beast waned in sync with his lack of oxygen. Black spots began to dot his vision for a moment, but then his mate’s arms’ grip loosened. Her ichor still filled his nose, but the wrath his chambers’ incited in the beast no longer carried the same intensity. Now he could pick out her aroma, the calming fragrance that offered safety in the confusion, anguish and fatigue of his rage. He panted, chest and back heaving with every breath. His eyes were anchored to the scarred floorboards, tail drooping between his legs. One ear laid flat against the back of his head while the other stood up, leaning forward at full attention. A furrowed forehead and puckered nose contrasted with his droopy lips. “It’s okay…” she reassured once he’d calmed, trembling hands moving from his collar to the back of his head. Warwick felt delicate fingers run through his fur in slow, deliberate strokes. “It’s okay…” But who was it okay for? For who did she speak to reassure? The beast? Or herself?

“Deep Enough to Dream”, part 2

Writer’s note: Okay, I changed the title of this fic. Thought this new one felt more like the story! Poor Felix. How I torment him so... XD

Part 1 

Felix dragged his feet into the establishment that was Tapper. He wasn’t one to frequent the bar, it was a place set aside for the rough-around-the-edges type, but it was 2 a.m. and those disturbing dreams plagued his sleep once more.

He stopped in the entrance, nervously scanning the room for any familiar face. His stomach twinged at the sight of a massive back and the unruly brown hair of his colleague. Felix took a breath and made his way over. Even though he and Ralph had never been close, there was a sense of relief that washed over Felix with seeing him there.

“Hi Ralph.” Felix’s voice came out weaker than he’d wanted it to.

The wrecker glanced over his shoulder like a giant eyeing Felix from a cloud. “Felix,” Ralph’s surprise was evident, “what’re you doing here?”

The handyman rubbed his arm. “Couldn’t sleep. Can I join you?”

“Sure!” Ralph said a little too enthusiastically. He waved at the barkeep as Felix hopped on the stool next to him. “Tapper! Another drink here.”

A tall mug of root beer slid to a stop in front of Felix a moment later. He grabbed the handle, and took a sip, the cold froth tickling under his nose.

“So, what’s eaten at you?” Felix threw Ralph a questioning look. “You don’t go to a bar at this hour if somethings not bothering you.”

“Well-“ Felix wasn’t sure why he chose Tapper’s place to visit. He certainly couldn’t stay in his apartment, and he didn’t wish to bother any of his friends with the images he couldn’t escape from. The Nicelanders wouldn’t understand. They were too sensitive a folk for this sort of thing. But for reasons beyond him, Felix felt in his core that he could trust Ralph with this issue. “You’re gonna think I’ve gone bonkers.”

Ralph shifted to face him better, his arm leaning on the bar, looking more like a friendly chum than a threatening antagonist as he did during gameplay. “Try me.”

Felix breathed in and out. “About a week ago, I started having these scary dreams. I’ve never had nightmares before, but I’m pretty sure that’s what these are.” The images of the monstrous bugs flashed in his mind; pincers raised for the kill, the sickening sound of metal teeth grinding in their mouths. “I’m in this place and it’s dark. There’s some sort of battle going on where soldiers are fighting giant bugs.” His heart sped up at the words that were about to come out of his mouth. Why was this happening to him! “I’ve seen people being eaten alive, ripped apart, dropped from the sky.” He leaned his head into his hands, the bar counter taking in his gaze as his voice grew thick. “Ralph, it’s terrible.”

Ralph’s face fell. “Wow. That does sound scary.”

Up until now, Felix had dreamed of the battlefield. Tonight, a whole new setting painted in his mind. “The nightmare I had right before coming here has been the strangest of all.” He gulped down a long swallow of root beer, using the back of his glove to wipe the froth his mouth. “I was getting married and I was the bride.”

“Hold up.” Ralph’s brows furrowed. “You were the bride?”

Felix threw his hands up in the air. “I told you it was strange!”

Ralph’s eyes widened at the outburst. He’d never seen Felix flustered. “Sorry. Sorry. Continue.”

“There was a tall man as the groom, and I was tall too.” Felix could see out of the corner of his eye Ralph’s features contorting in confusion, but he went on. “All of the sudden, this gigantic bug – bigger than any bug that has been in my dreams so far – burst through a window and ate the man. Right in front of me!”

A beat of silence fell between them as Ralph seemed clueless as to how to respond. The pressure of holding in his traumatic dreams was finally being released, and Felix could feel his overwhelmed nerves calm slightly.

Ralph scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know what to tell you, Felix. That’s some heavy stuff to take in,” he paused, taping Felix on the shoulder, “but y’know what, any time you need someone to keep you company during the night, my door is always open.” Chuckling, Ralph added, lightening the mood, “And the fact that I have no door.”

Felix cracked a tiny smile at the joke. “Thanks.” He glanced at his colleague, questioning why the Nicelanders thought Ralph was so bad. “You’re not such a bad guy, Ralph.”

A bright, gap-toothed smile spread the wrecker’s face. “Thanks, Felix.”

Forgetting his troubles for a moment, Felix asked, “You said people come to a bar at this hour because they have something bothering them. What’s bothering you?”

“Oh, uh-“ Ralph found the floor suddenly very interesting, “Nothing. I was thirsty and thought I’d get a drink.”

The explanation sounded a bit forced, but Felix didn’t pry any further. The It-boys stayed at Tapper’s for a while, enjoying the company and drinks and maybe even a new friendship. Just for tonight, Felix forgot his troubled dreams.

February Feats

So happy that February flew by this year, although with no snow in New York it felt a little sacrilegious. I think this has been the least snow I’ve ever experienced in a winter in my life and it feels awful. There’s still a few weeks left of the season, so I guess that could change but I mean snow in March? Give me a break. Here’s what went down this month.

NATHAN DID THE TONIGHT SHOW! And it was amazing. So crazy proud. I got to go with him to 30 Rock and everyone was so nice and it was incredible.

I rewatched As Good As It Gets and what a terrible movie! No way in hell would Helen Hunt get together with Jack Nicholson. C’mon.

I started watching The Haunting of Hill House and I don’t think I’ll continue. Reasons? 1. I don’t think I like horror shows. Movies? Sure, that’s a fun time with an end date of a few hours. 2. What awful parents would keep their millions of children in a house like that? 3. Maybe it was a bad idea to start this in February, when it’s nowhere near spooky season, that might be my fault.

Saw Happy Death Day 2U with Nathan on Valentine’s Day because I wanted to see something and WOOF, what a nightmare of a movie. I knew it would be terrible, but it still shocked me.

Read Ellie Kemper’s latest book.

Finally caught up to the end of season four on Broad City and goddam is that a perfect show. Excited to start season five soon.

I rebought Essie’s Apricot Cuticle Oil because I used to love it and then finished it and forgot about it. It’s such a great product but you do have to use it at least semi-daily to see a real difference in your cuticles.

Went to Charlie Palmer Steak for a Restaurant Week lunch and even though the environment is kind of stuffy, the food was really good. I love when pasta is offered as an appetizer, it’s always the perfect amount. The tagliatelle was really good and the steak sandwich was great (if not a little too bread-y). That sandwich is also the “official sandwich of Madison Square Garden” which everyone tells you a thousand times upon entering the restaurant, so that’s something too, I guess?

CANNOT WAIT FOR THIS SHOW TO COME OUT mainly because of how amazing the book is. Airs March 15!

Love that Trader Joe’s keeps putting out new candle scents. The Lemon Cookie one is fantastic.

Loved the Big Mouth Valentine’s Day special. Obviously over the moon pleased that the lady bug was in it.

So I tried Ree Drummond’s Caesar salad dressing recipe and I wasn’t a huge fan of her dressing itself  (Teigen’s dressing is better but of course it is because of the mayo), BUT I loved the way she does her croutons. They turn out really crunchy on the outside, but still super soft on the inside, it’s genius and I’ll include how to do it below.

Ree Drummond’s Croutons recipe: Slice the (French or ciabatta) bread into thick slices and cut them into 1-inch cubes. Throw them onto a baking sheet. Heat some olive oil in a small saucepan or skillet over low heat. Crush-but don't chop-the garlic and add them to the oil. Use a spoon to move the garlic around in the pan. After 3 to 5 minutes, turn off the heat and remove the garlic from the pan. Slowly drizzle the olive oil over the bread cubes. Mix together with your hands, and then sprinkle lightly with salt. Toss and cook in the pan until golden brown and crisp. Add a little butter for more flavor.

Honestly, those croutons were so good that I had a few leftover that I put in a pappardelle tomato pasta the next day and… whoa. Have you ever put croutons in a pasta before? Holy fuck was it good. The crunch factor in an otherwise texture-less dish was unbelievable. How is this not a thing that everyone is doing? We all need to wake the fuck up.

I also made Ina Garten’s cauliflower toast and my god, IT WAS AMAZING.

A new bar opened in my neighborhood called The Huntress, so we went and it’s pretty good! It’s mostly a wings places and they were really tasty (and that’s coming from someone who does not enjoy wings - the bones are too tiny and gross and no thanks), but these were really good. They also have poutine (!) on the menu, and even though the gravy is much too salty, the beautifully authentic curds were appreciated.

I always forget about the one bottle of Tom Ford nail polish I have, but it lasts me a full week whenever I wear it. I mean, the price is stupid, but it does last a decent amount of time.

Have you heard of the site or the book Desserts For Two? Pretty self-explanatory, but it’s created by a woman who makes recipes specifically for two people. I tried her chocolate cake recipe for Valentine’s Day and it was delicious. The cake was so good, but I really didn’t care for her frosting, if you do try this one definitely find a better icing recipe online or better yet just buy the premade one they sell at grocery stores. Or even just top it with Nutella. Fuck, I’m hungry now.

Watched all of Difficult People and I mean… SUCH a great show, which everyone obviously knows by now, it just took me awhile to finally get there and see it. Other than it being a great show, I was completely in awe of Julie Klausner’s wardrobe. I wanted everything she wore.

This Lemon, Bacon, Kale, Cauliflower pasta blew my face off, I made it three days in a row.

I rewatched a lot of the last season (spoilers ahead) of Dawson’s Creek (does it sound like a don’t have a job? I do! I just don’t work very hard) and when Jen dies and then Grams says to her, “I’ll see you soon, child. Soon.” I fucking sobbed. BUCKETS. My god. I mean, see for yourself. (And if your reaction isn’t quite as strong as mine… look inside yourself, maybe.)

I have wanted to try this Serious Eats  potato recipe forever so I did and it just didn’t work out the way I wanted it to. Some of the potatoes turned out the way they were supposed to, but you’re really supposed to do this technique with a real oven and not a tiny convection one like I have. The few that came out the way they were supposed to were really good and crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, but the effort involved in this recipe was too next-level. Maybe as a Thanksgiving recipe it’d make sense?

I watched the Versace series on Netflix and holy heavenly fuck, it’s a bad one. I only lasted about three episodes before I just couldn’t go any further. SO terrible.

Had a slice at Scarr’s in the Lower East Side and it was very decent, definitely one of the most solid pepperoni slices in that area. UPDATE: Definitely don’t go late at night, they’ve been sitting around all day and they suuuuuuck right before closing.

I now know how to make a steak at home and there’s no turning back now. I’ve been forever intimidated by cooking steak at home because it seemed like such a hard thing to do properly. (I did it once a few years ago and, like, tripled the amount of cream sauce I put on top and felt so sick I didn’t ever want to do it again.) But I did it on two separate occasions this month and I think I’m maybe kind of a pro at it now? This Tasty video helped so much. The only tip I can offer is to use normal salt and not the course kosher salt that I did on steak #1, that baby was inedible because of that course salt. Oh! And for the sauce that you obviously have to serve your steak with, it’s best to grind your own peppercorns in a spice grinder. I don’t know why, but I feel like this was the most important step. I have a lot of steak thoughts. I’ll stop.

I tried the tacos at Empellon Al Pastor in the East Village and while they were pretty good, I found them slightly on the expensive side for a place on Avenue A. We can all calm down a bit.

I visited Sweet Moment in Chinatown for a latte and it was a pretty cute experience even if the service was a little salty. If we’re being real, people only come here because Instagram exists, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The cream art choco latte that I had was ridiculous good, which makes sense because I have a sneaking suspicion that it’s just melted chocolate in a cup.

I visited the Glossier flagship store again because I was in the neighborhood and I (finally) tried out their Boy Brow. And let’s get this straight, I tried it on even though I already had other eyebrow products on (ColourPop’s Brow Boss Pencil as well as a little Milani Easybrow) which was maybe a dumb idea, but I didn’t want to wipe my eyebrows off and try the Glossier one incase it sucked and then had to walk around the rest of the day looking like a psychopath. SO, that being said, here’s what it looked like using all three products.

They look pretty full, right? I kind of think too full. I don’t know, maybe I’m a maniac. I should’ve done a before and after photo, not just an after. I just don’t see the big deal about their products. I feel like every item Glossier sells is something you need to use in combination with something else so it’ll actually look like something’s working. In conclusion, I have no idea if this is a good product or not and that’s really irritating, even to me.

Chrissy Teigen just announced that she’s gonna start her own website with new recipes! Amazing news!

I ate the pepperoni slice at Mama’s Too on the Upper West Side and all the good reviews about it ain’t lying. Crazy good slices. Might even be better than Prince Street Pizza.

I tried the mini Thickening Spray from Bumble & Bumble in my continued attempt at hair domination (and may I suggest that you always buy the mini size of any new hair product you’re trying? It makes so much more sense and is much cheaper) and it worked out well! I’ve only used it once but I think it’s a good product, next time I’ll definitely try it on my roots as well to see what it can really do. UPDATE: Definitely don’t spray it on your roots, it works much better if you use it sparsely on the rest of your hair when damp. 

I saw Waitress on Broadway and just wow. I haven’t been to a show in years and I forgot how much fun they are. This one was absolutely no exception. I went because a friend of mine that I met at the restaurant is in it, so I went to see her and not only was she phenomenal (Jessie Hooker-Bailey), the entire show was incredible. Joey McIntyre was great. Also? They had these mini pies for sale at intermission (genius) and the Salted Caramel Chocolate Pie is literally reason enough to go see this show. I need that recipe and I need it badly.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Liz Heather (@lizheather) on Feb 28, 2019 at 9:13pm PST

I finally ate at Sardi’s (which is something I’ve wanted to do for years) and sat at (in my opinion) the best corner booth under Dr. Ruth. And while I wish I had more to gush about, I… don’t. Ugh! I really think I just ordered bad. I only got the steak tartare and it was probably the most disappointing one I’ve ever had, which sucks considering it was also the most expensive. I knew I should’ve ordered the crab cake. That being said, I will definitely return mainly because the service was so impeccable that you’d have to return. Everyone was crazy nice and accommodating and pleasant, this one is just my fault I think. Also, I need to stop ordering streak tartare. I’ve already found the place that makes it the best (The Dutch) so why the hell am I still looking? I feel like a happily married man who can’t stop looking for something better to come along. STOP!

HELLO BEST MONTH OF THE YEAR, MARCH!

to the MOTHERFUCKERS who put together The Lord Of The Rings: The Third Age Osgiliath is literally fucking impossible without massive amounts of previous preparation and praying to based RNGesus because of the solo Idrial fights. now I will say that the motherfucking morgul orcs are unbalanced little assholes. immune to cripple (which you *need* in rohan and later in helms deep) but not to stun and sleep??? luckily I gave Elegost his passive skills to make arrows of sleep affect everybody. and the mages are able to be silenced? what the FUCK. all they have is a piddly little melee attack that does maybe a hundred damage with a crit, which isn't even a goddamn pixel on the health bar by the time you get there without even doing any exp grinding whatsoever. thank christ I put all my shadowcraft skills onto Idrial and Morwen while I was in the Gullies and Rohan and that finally got me through the Gothmog boss fight which was always the fucking worst whenever I ran it back when I was younger (and AGAIN when I hit it on emulation a couple years ago). Faramir is shitty, and bugged beyond all fucking recognition. You know, he actually killed Berethor with Faramir's Quality buffs. For some fucking reason after I had put him in for a moment during the first Gothmog fight in order to get a fellowship grace up on Faramir (since his GODDAMN BUFFS TAKE FUCKHUGE AMOUNTS OF MANA TO USE and I couldn't dispel the two separate haste of the elves buffs Idrial had given him because I'm a fucking asshole apparently), every time the Curse Of Barad-Dur dot procced, Faramir would counterattack and hit not Gothmog but Berethor and after Berethor- who was safe in the bench- fucking died because he hit 0 hp, he goddamn disappeared from the battle entirely. I hit X and only Hadhod & Morwen were there, Berethor was nowhere in sight. I wasn't gonna fucking use him since he didn't have his good weapons yet (and he had been consistently disappointing since the fucking beginning of Moria, only useful for stand fast while fighting the fucking stun happy goblin shit stains (FUCK YOU GOBLIN VETERAN YOU SACK OF FUCKING BULLSHIT) and the uruk hai berserkers at helms deep (FUCK YOU TOO LITERALLY EVERY SINGLE ASPECT OF THE HELMS DEEP GAUNTLET) so he was very underskilled too, oopsy doopsy) but the fact remains that Faramir fucking killed the main protagonist AS WELL AS ANY HOPE FOR REDEEMING SMEAGOL. poor demented bastard almost got saved by Frodo's compassion too... and anyway, morgul mirror was a fucking pain and a half to get around with Eaoden constantly using dispel unable to actually do any combat worth a damn but I got around that by cheesing with the haste abilities and a little bit of RNG screwage (and quite a bit of skill grinding, fuck whoever decided to make you use a hundred fucking sword crafts just to learn an ability, I'm glad I only skilled spirit on everybody through all of Eregion & Moria so that I was able to sustain AP long enough to get as many spirit skills in as little time as possible), but eventually I got though it because with the tools at my disposal I'm able to depend on any (viable) three person combination of my team to get through any situation I get thrown, and if something is too much of a challenge I can just pop northern storm (most op skill in the game, he fucking blasts water stallion out of the water at barely more mana than his other abilities, thank you polished elfstone of spirit enhancement (and incessant levels of skill grinding) and sudden abrupt unemployment I guess) or flames of ruin or some other lame ass cheese strat. hey man I worked really hard to be able to not do anything requiring skill and tactics and that bullshit. this isn't fire emblem. I'm so getting off topic here... point is, it's not Gothmog. it's not the morgul bastards. it's not even Faramir being the team killing fucktard. it's the GODDAMN. MOTHER FUCKING. PIECE OF SHIT. DUMB STUNLOCKS. Idrial fighting the two morgul archers? not a problem. with haste of the elves, cleanse shadow, aura of the valar, you have more than enough tools at your disposal even with very minimal skill grinding or points in your actual spirit stat. but with the morgul sword warriors? Jesus Fucking Criminy Christmas, Batman! It's a fucking nightmare. If Idrial does not have the initiative for the battle, there's potential to just see the Staggering Bash attack animation again and again and again and again and morgul slash and hope that you'll get a turn that's quickly and immediately dashed by another animation for that motherfucking staggering bash. and then the game over screen and replaying another goddamn eternity of a nazgul fight or plodding along through the sewers. Now, a problem occurs here if you didn't control Idrial on adventure mode the literal whole game up to this point getting the all of the side quest exp that for some ungodly reason isn't fucking shared with the entire goddamn party. Because if you don't have the passive skill Frenzy by this point in the game... you're literally fucked, that's it, game over man, game over. While it's 100% possible to keep yourself perpetually alive for all of video gaming eternity by just casting aura of the valar on yourself as soon as the previously casted aura of the valar brings your dead body back to life, there's literally an exponentially smaller and smaller chance that both of the orcs will not use staggering bash in between each turn. I think it's such fucking bullshit that the stun stacks refresh the time it takes. So I mean theoretically they've gotta run out of mana at some point, but the odds are not pretty when stacked with the fact that you can, well, tear your hair out in tearror (get it?) as soon as you accidentally cast cleansing waters instead of aura of the valar, then get hit by a staggering bash and get stunlocked and fucking die since you don't have the aura up. Now granted it's totally possible to just cast wheel of fire or water stallion or perfect mode and kill them both instantly... IF YOU HAVE THE INITIATIVE. if you don't have initiative first and the literal first animation is staggering bash, that's a one way ticket to a broken ass PS2 (or GameCube but those things are resilient as fuck and literally impossible to break beyond function even with several two story drops. holy shit did you see that episode of x-play where adam and morgan fucking demolished the 360 but the little GameCube that could turned on because it loves you so much, that was a fucking awesome show and I miss it so much). so I think that the person who decided to put not one, not three, but TWO enemies who can and will consistently stun turn after turn after turn after turn after mind numbingly broken as shit turn, should definitely be executed... or at least publicly humiliated and put in the fucking pillory. this tomato's for giving a 9 year old gray hair over a stupid fucking video game you son of a bitch!!! *ahem* But anyways I highly recommend The Lord Of The Rings: The Third Age on the ps2/gamecube generation of consoles. Great game, lots of fun. Only minimal complaints here and there, that's a damn good rpg for it's time. Hell, its good now! Just... don't use Hadhod. At all. Ever. Please. He needs so many stat gains in spirit and dexterity just to fine fucking useable, and he gets his best gear for a long time at barely an hour into it. The dwarf is not rewarding at all without new game+ cheesing the ancient elfstones from evil mode for pelennor fields onto your level 1 characters, and even then only on easy. Elegost is awesome consistently, Morwen is great eventually, Idrial is fucking necessary as shit throughout, Berethor is necessary on & off but especially at the end, Eaoden is the fucking greatest RPG character of all time, but Hadhod is just... meh. He's okay in Osgiliath once you get his walking axe in the sewer but by then you've literally beaten every hard fight except for the final Sauron boss fight and that one is literally fucking impossible on any difficulty but easy so good fucking luck bro.