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ashasmonsters · 3 years

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The Middle Prince

Male reader x Male Tiefling (Amon)

Citrus rating: Lemon

Content: Detailed wet dreams, alcohol

Words: 8k

Note: Some MLM goodness for Pride Month! This took me longer than I intended, but only because I wrote it way too long and had to break it up into parts! Expect more in this series.

The dreams started assailing you a little over a month ago. During the first week, you couldn't remember anything. You would awake in your bedchamber covered in sweat and panting as if you had just finished a sparring session. These nights, a name danced on the tip of your tongue, escaping just as you attempted to sound it out and make it real. Confused and alone you would promptly go back to sleep after flipping over your pillow. As time passed, the dreams grew both in intensity and clarity. Though still more mysterious than normal dreams, little details here and there coalesced in your waking memory: a soft touch followed by a rough one, the smell of lavender, your fingernails gliding over shallow ridges, the color of aquamarine gemstones. These dreams visited you every night without fail.

The determinations made by the court oneiromancers were limited in scope. After spending the night in the care of one such dream diviner, they found these dreams to be coming from somewhere else. The dreams were not your own, at least not fully. Beyond this, they had no more revelations. Anything more was conjecture; one stated that if magick was involved, it was either massively strong, thus able to conceal its origin, or so fleeting and ephemeral that even the oneiromancers couldn't trace it.

Your father's concern waxed but mostly waned. Perhaps if you were the eldest crown prince instead of the middle one, the answer would have been willed into existence by his command. He simply asked that the oneiromancers track your condition and report any findings to him, but no more than once each week. Though dismayed that little was being done to solve this mystery, you were used to being far from priority. Even years ago when an attempt on your life left one of your legs still and unresponsive, a leg brace allowing you to stand at public appearances was issued and the problem was declared solved. You vividly remembered the look on the assassin's face when he realized he had accidentally struck third in the line of succession rather than first. His reaction was not dissimilar from your father's when you mentioned your dreams: a mildly amused but primarily disappointed visage. The spot where the dagger had pierced your spine no longer ached but your discontent was as raw and fresh as the day the realization struck.

With the oneiromancers essentially told to only report something unquestionably threatening to your life or the family's honor, you shared very little with them. Several times you had dismissed them with little more than a hand wave. None of them ever protested. To their knowledge, no new developments within these dreams came to light. It was just another little curiosity that came with the court.

To their knowledge, anyway. In truth, there had been a quite substantial development that you withheld from them.

The night air was cool and crisp. From your bedchamber's veranda, you let the gentle sound of the garden's fountains below soothe your nerves. This had become your regular nighttime ritual; your last chance to feel relaxed and cool before waking up overheated and frantic. You enjoyed the last of it before sliding under the sheets and waiting for the dream to visit you.

This was the clearest dream to date. The scattered sensations and feelings from prior episodes came into focus: the touches came from smooth, tender hands, the smell of lavender from purple cups of herbal tea. Your fingers played over short, filed horns. That bold aquamarine color like a burning emerald belonged to a pair of eyes, their pupils narrow and catlike. The overall plot of the dream remained unknown to you. What came next, however, was new. Very new.

A pair of hands caressed your body as whatever clothing you had dissolved into the air. Your mind reeled from the realization of what was happening, yet you were relaxed all the same. Though surprised, you didn't wish for it to stop. Even as the tender hands had you at their mercy, one playfully pinching a nipple as the other reached lower in between your legs, you welcomed their touch without knowing why. You just did. It felt right. The hand between your legs started confidently stroking your shaft; making you moan. Their touch was expertly coordinated as if they knew everything about you. Not long after, the building pressure within you was too much to bear, then...

"AMON!" You cried out, the name that had eluded you all those nights finally woven from syllables into a complete utterance. You were no longer dreaming, your own hands reflexively covering your mouth in a futile attempt to take back the exclamation. In the dead of night like this, you most certainly alerted someone.

"My Prince, are you alright?" Your chief courtier, Petra, had burst through your bedchamber door. Guards with polearms at the ready had her back.

"I'm alright," you caught your breath, "it's the dream again. No cause for alarm." As usual, you bore a sheen of sweat and your heart was thundering in your ears.

"You've never called out like that before," Petra noted, not yet dropping her guard.

"I called out?" You lied, wincing as you felt something viscid and slimy on your groin under your dressing gown. Deep embarrassment came to the forefront of your mind, your face helpless to hide it. "Bring me my washbasin, please," you quickly uttered.

"At once, my Prince." Petra left the room as the guards resumed their posts. You peeled back your dressing gown to inspect the damage by moonlight. It was worse than you thought. Undoubtedly this gown would have to be thrown out. You groaned, disappointed in your own body for betraying you like this.

"Your washbasin, Prince." Petra returned and you hurriedly covered yourself up again. The moonlight was too dim, or perhaps she pretended not to see, but she was soon at your bedside without pause, brandishing a sponge and towel.

"I can do this myself," you said, taking the implements from her. She looked at you with intent to interrogate.

"Prince, if there have been changes with your dreams, you must inform the oneiromancers."

"No need," you said, eager to fully clean yourself. "You are dismissed, Petra."

Petra held her tongue. Her eyes told you she only did so because she was eager to return to bed. When she departed your bedchamber and closed the door, you finally discarded the soiled gown and did your best to cleanse yourself of your nocturnal emission. You donned a new gown and welcomed an ordinary slumber.

When morning came, so did Petra and a bevy of assistant courtiers. From the accoutrements they wielded you identified them as the "fashion corps," your nickname for the hairdressers, wardrobers, clothiers, and makeup artists whose arrival portended a formal event you were required to attend. As the squad of aesthetes communicated amongst each other, Petra drew you a bath. While the tub filled, she came to your side and took your shoulder on hers to help you hobble into the bathing chamber.

"What's the occasion, Petra?" You unfolded a privacy screen, dividing your bathing chamber in half. As you stripped and entered the balmy water, you heard Petra pull up a chair on the other side of the screen.

"The biannual alliance gala, Prince."

"The alliance gala?" You asked. Your appearance had not been required at one for quite some time. "Why me?"

"Your father has requested that the entire court attend. From what I've heard, there is quite the number of fiefdoms and baronies joining the kingdom at this one."

"Grand." You sighed and resigned yourself into the water until it met your chin. You imagined the great hall of the palace, teeming with strangers from far-off lands all speaking in such meaningless platitudes that they needed alcohol in hand to tolerate it.

"If it makes you feel any better, Prince, most of the night depends on your elder brother and your father. You have the freedom to do whatever you like once your father's opening speech is concluded," Petra said with a mild tone.

It didn't make you feel better. Your father built a kingdom that, apparently, smaller domains were scrambling to join. Your elder brother was the crown prince with hordes of suitors seeking his heart. Even your elder sister, with no direct claim to the crown, was quite sought after. Then there was you, with permission to get as drunk as you like at the gala. You seriously considered exercising that privilege.

Your ruminations were interrupted by the clatter of hammered metal and leather straps from beyond the screen.

"I've got your brace ready, Prince. Let me know when you're dry," Petra said. You reluctantly finished scrubbing and soaping yourself before heaving your body onto the lip of the bath and toweling off. Sat there, damp with dripping hair and a towel round your waist, you permitted Petra to attach the brace to you. She respectfully averted her eyes as she affixed the contraption to your immobilized leg. With it attached, you traded comfort for the ability to limp and stand unassisted.

Next came the gauntlet of clothing, hair styling, and makeup that the fashion corps employed. Even for today, which was merely a rehearsal for the true event tomorrow, they gave no mercy. They encircled you and passed you around as they worked like a knight being suited by his squires. The process was grueling. Your hair was tugged and the breeches squeezed your brace into your leg. With the freedom to choose your own clothes removed from you, there was no choice but to deal with the feeling of metal biting at your skin.

Bound in the tight, ceremonial clothing, Petra took your arm for the long walk to the great hall. It was full of palace staff and buzzing like a beehive. The ceiling, high as a cathedral's, let in beams of sunlight through its many massive windows. Tables were being arranged with the intent to give each attending guest a view of the stage: the stage where your father and elder brother would be giving their opening speeches tomorrow. The two of them were behind a podium, your brother reading a piece of parchment over your father's shoulder. Behind them towards the back of the stage was a row of ornate seats; not quite thrones but just as uncomfortable. Your elder sister met your gaze as she sat on one. She beckoned you over.

"That will be your seat for the rehearsal, Prince," Petra said.

"Rehearsal for sitting?" You quipped, walking towards your seat anyway. Resistance was futile no matter how silly this all was.

"I'll undo your hair and get you into more comfortable clothes as soon as I can, Prince," Petra said apologetically. "Bear with it. I must attend to the other staff now."

With that, Petra disappeared into the crowd of scrambling staff arranging the great hall into order. You limped to your seat, your brace clicking all the while.

"You look excellent, little brother," your sister said. She was attempting to alleviate your sour mood, but she still hadn't figured out how. Neither had you.

"I look like an idiot. And my leg is killing me," you snapped.

Your sister merely sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her hair, in a high bun, bumped the bejeweled headrest and made her curse.

"You used to love these events when you were smaller. You had perfected waving to the crowd before you learned to talk," she said.

"That was a long time ago. Things were different; I was naive, none of us had official duties, the assassination attempt hadn't happened, I wasn't bedeviled by these dreams... mother was alive." You cast your gaze downward, examining your buckled leather shoes. You heard her sigh.

"Not all change has to be bad. And to be fair, you still don't have any official duties to worry about." She placed a hand on your shoulder.

"That's a polite way of saying I'm useless." You looked up at your father and elder brother. They were discussing something about their speeches, annotating and marking the parchment before them. A small audience of pages stood in front of the stage, listening to them run through portions of their speeches. They hadn't yet paid you any heed.

"It's a blunt way of saying you're free," your sister said firmly. "Every week I'm fielding suitors from all over the world, and not one of them has proven to be anything but repulsive. I'm terrified that one day strategy and diplomacy will land me with someone like them."

Your eyes widened at her open disdain for the matters of the court.

"I'm sorry," you said, reconstructing your vision of who your sister truly was. "I had no idea you felt that way... I thought—"

"You thought I was traipsing about with handsome men from far-off lands every day?" She smirked.

"...yes." You blushed.

"Hah! I wish!" Your sister flinched at her own exclamation, then relaxed when she realized the monarch and the crown prince hadn't noticed. "But you don't have to wish for that. You're free to traipse with whomever you please."

You blushed harder. Turning away from your sister, you saw your brother and father finishing up their speech revisions. On cue, Petra emerged from the throng of staff to conclude this "rehearsal."

"Looks like Petra's coming to get you," your sister noted. "I know you'll be free to retire to your bedchambers as soon as the speeches are over, but I want you to try and enjoy yourself tomorrow night. It's what I would do if I could." She gave you one final smile before getting up from her seat.

"I will," you said, finally cracking a tiny smile in return. Petra had your arm soon after.

"Your presence is no longer required, Prince." Petra helped you up. "Shall I take you back to your chambers?"

"Yes, please," you said, giving your sister a thankful glance. She returned a similar expression as Petra whisked you away.

When you had finally returned to your chambers and changed into less constrictive clothing, you asked Petra to stay awhile to converse. Your sister's advice had forced you to re-evaluate your approach to the gala. Your priorities had shifted just as much as your notions of her personality had.

"You mentioned there were many newcomers to the kingdom? Quite a few tables were being set up in the great hall," you quizzed Petra.

"Yes, from what I've gathered, it's expected to be the largest event we've hosted all year. We're expecting guests from as far as Ankara and Nubia," she answered matter-of-factly. Perhaps she was a little proud, too.

"Are there any specific guests I should know about?" You asked with the grace of a war elephant. Courtship had crossed your mind for the first time mere minutes ago. "Anyone of high repute?"

Petra picked up on your clumsy intent immediately. She knew you too well.

"Prince, it would be quicker to list the attendees not worth approaching than those with stellar accolades. If it were me..." she drew in air through her teeth as if expecting to be reprimanded, "I would consider tomorrow's gala an excellent time to court someone."

"I'll try to take that advice to heart, Petra," you said.

"I'm pleased, Prince. Your matters are your own, but if I may speak unequivocally..."

"Speak your mind." You gave her permission. She hesitated, then sighed.

"You strike me as lonely, Prince. Ever since the Queen passed, your social life has suffered." Petra paused again, considering her words carefully. "You deserve love of that measure once more, whether from a partner or a good friend."

"Thank you," you sighed as if she had given you permission to use your heart. "I appreciate the advice, Petra."

"Of course, Prince." She glanced out the window towards the setting sun. "I recommend you retire early tonight to be invigorated tomorrow, lest the dreams strike again."

You nodded.

"They will." You avoided her eyes as you remembered what happened last time. "Have a washbasin ready. For the, erm, sweat."

"Of course, Prince," Petra said, her face remaining unmoved. You didn't bother trying to discern whether she was oblivious to last night's gown-soiling or if she merely extended you the courtesy of pretending. "I'll leave you be. Get some rest."

You watched her exit your chambers without another word, finally exhaling the breath you held. The idea of having to clean yourself up again was hardly appealing. Standing on the veranda and enjoying the cool night air was only prolonging the inevitable.

The aforementioned inevitable reared its troublesome head as soon as you surrendered to sleep. Your consciousness materialized somewhere, a location unidentifiable but still more detailed than you had ever encountered before. You glimpsed kaleidoscopic carpets, hammered brass, and vines growing freely about the place.

"Welcome back." A man's voice like sweet honey floated through the warm air.

"I missed you." The words left your mouth without you knowing them. You were merely an observer to your own actions. "Amon."

"My sweet prince." Lips on your knuckles. The smell of lavender tea. "Tea?"

"No thanks. We must keep this quick," you uttered again, breathless and surrendering to a desire that was both yours and unknown to you.

"Tut, tut. What's gotten into you, my prince? I've never seen you so impatient," the voice teased. Your head spun.

"I need my energy," you gasped, something warm and wet lapping at your member. "For tomorrow." The ministrations paused.

"Of course. Tomorrow will be very special indeed." The tongue on your shaft resumed, making you squirm. You reached out into the nothingness, your fingers grasping at frayed carpet tassels. Your other hand reached in between your legs and found a head of hair. You grasped a smooth horn that curved neatly behind an ear. It bobbed up and down at a tantalizing pace.

"Amon, I... I shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't what?" Another pause in the pleasure. You caught your breath. Those eyes again, burning into yours with the hue of warm ocean waters. "Say no to me, my prince. I implore you to try."

Caught in the stare you were helpless. You quivered with need, your manhood twitching and drooling. Only a high whine left your lips.

"Thought so."

You shot up in bed, crying out and spasming. Once more you had spilled yourself into your gown, your entire body slick with sweat. As a small victory, your cries remained nondescript rather than referential to this "Amon." In the dream, you had felt a sweet warmth in your breast each time you spoke to him and even warmer when he responded. In your waking memory, this name was empty. There was no connection and no feeling of belonging. If you hadn't heard your own voice leave your mouth in the dream, you would have had no way of knowing those experiences were your own. Your dreaming memory and conscious recollection were severed, at odds with one another. What did he mean when he said tomorrow would be special? Did he know about the gala? You didn't know how much you knew.

"The washbasin, Prince," Petra uttered as she carried it into your chambers. She stowed it at your bedside. "Shall I leave you like before?"

"Yes, please... but would it trouble you to return afterward?"

"Not at all, Prince. I'll return at your word." She slipped out of the room. You took the opportunity to cleanse yourself of the evidence before permitting Petra to return.

“Petra, would it be possible to acquire a guest list for the gala?” You asked.

“Possible, yes. However, it will be quite long without any qualifiers. As I mentioned previously, this is one of the largest events of the year.”

You considered simply asking her if the name Amon was among the attendees, but Petra would likely alert the oneiromancers and in turn, your father. You doubted anything would happen at all if she did, but this was a matter you wanted to confront on your own. Like all other decisions made for you at your father’s behest, your own interests would unquestionably be cast aside if he decided to involve himself.

“I’d like to know the first names of all the male guests scheduled to attend,” you said. Petra raised an eyebrow.

“That doesn’t narrow it down much, Prince,” Petra answered. The sweet, honeyed voice from your dream remained in your mind. It was the voice of a young man, one likely of your age.

“Only the male guests around my age, then,” you specified. Petra raised her other eyebrow, making her expression one of surprise rather than skepticism.

“Ah. That kind of list. I see...” Your cheeks burned; though you didn’t know where this inquiry would take you, you also felt the conclusion Petra came to was not wholly inaccurate. “Shall I make, erm, other arrangements as well?”

“Arrangements?” you asked. It was Petra’s turn to blush.

“The standard things... extra pillows, oils, skins—”

“Yes, of course, Petra,” you cut her off, not wishing for her to extend the list of amenities any further. Searching for a suitor was a favorable charade. If nothing else, if this search for the mysterious Amon proved fruitless, then you would at least have the means, motive, and opportunity to bed somebody... if you had the audacity. The look on Petra's face said she didn't think so.

"I’ll have the list and the... goods brought in before sun-up,” Petra said. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, Petra, that will suffice.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Morning arrived and so did Petra's promises; the chief courtier herself was nowhere to be found, but a neatly transcribed list of names and a box tied with a bow sat atop a chaise lounge when you awoke. You already knew what waited inside the box, so you went for the list. Though only containing the names of guests that fit your qualifiers, the parchment was both long and double-sided. Your eyes began to tire just as they fell across what you were looking for:

Amon II - Eparch of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia

You were puzzled. Makuria and Elodia were names you hadn't heard since you were tutored. Even your father's kingdom with its diplomats venturing far and wide rarely mentioned them. You only knew they were small kingdoms far away from this one. There was not one but two oceans between here and there, they spoke a language no tutor in the palace taught, and both titles of "Nobatian" and "Eparch" were unknown to you.

Then the fashion corps arrived. You dropped the parchment and pondered the new information as they manhandled you into the appearance they had crafted for you yesterday. Perhaps due to more practiced hands or being lost in your thoughts, the process seemed to go much faster than previously. You almost didn't believe it when they told you they were finished, but the shifted sun and your appearance in the mirror confirmed that the gala would soon begin. Your hair was fashioned into an unnatural shape, your face was dusted with powder, and your clothes were so form-fitting that you appeared sewn into them. The bulge of the leg brace through your breeches peeked out at the ankle; the leggings were so tight that your overcoat preserved more of your modesty than they did.

With Petra absent and likely scrambling to put last-minute touches on the gala, you walked to the great hall with the assistance of the fashion corps, who likewise made hasty repairs to your appearance as your gait jostled things out of place. When you arrived, the great hall was even busier than at the rehearsal. It seemed there was a member of palace staff for each seat at every table, all of them fastidiously arranging cutlery, plates, decorative vases, placemats, and myriad other things you didn't know the names for.

“Little brother!” You turned your head and spotted your elder sister within a parade of her own fashion corps regiment. She waved at you from one of the great hall’s entrances.

“Sister,” you responded with a nod, your own cavalcade parting to allow her approach.

“Have you given tonight any consideration?” She asked.

“Yes, actually...”

“You’re not going to retreat to your chambers?”

“...not immediately,” you said, noncommittal.

“I’m glad.” She smiled gently. “I’ll likely be busy most of the night, though if you’d like me to send anyone your way, let me know. Who’s on your list?”

“My list?” you sputtered. “Petra told you?”

“Petra? Goodness, no,” she chuckled. “I just figured you’d have one. It’s standard practice for these sorts of things; I’ve a list as well. So... who’s on yours?”

You lowered your head and examined your shoes.

“Well... it’s quite long.”

“How scandalous!” she gasped exaggeratedly.

“I’m just casting a wide net is all! I don’t intend to bed every single male my age!” Your cheeks burned again. You considered dropping the charade if it meant this level of humiliation.

“I expected my mild little brother to have a rebellious phase eventually, but this...” she said, ignoring your cries.

"Sister, please," you pleaded. The tone of your voice convinced her to return to normal. She extended a hand to ruffle your hair but stopped herself when your fashion corps hairstylist glared at her.

"Apologies, little brother. I had to jest a little," she smiled at you, this time without intent to tease. "They're going to start letting in the guests soon. We should take our seats."

You nodded and followed her to the stage. The fashion corps fell away from you and went to help elsewhere. You sat in your uncomfortable pseudo-throne and waited, eventually joined by your other siblings save for your eldest brother. They greeted you as they took position at your side, but there was very little to talk about. This was the first time you had seen them in a while.

Then came the guests: the table-setters had cleared out some minutes before the floodgates burst and more staff escorted groups of people to their tables. The cathedral-like great hall was full in mere moments. Sorted by table, there was a sea of people in colorful finery all conversing amongst themselves and giving you and your siblings the occasional glance. You tried to pick out Amon from the crowd but quickly realized half-remembered fragments from your dreams wouldn't be enough to pick him from a sea of hundreds. Even finding his name on the list took a considerable amount of time.

Then the hall fell silent, or something close to it. A lively conversation between hundreds of people dropped to hushed whispers. Your father and brother had entered the hall and begun their walk to the podium, silencing the crowd with nothing but their appearance. When your father reached the podium, he extended both arms palms up and the previously subdued crowd erupted into cheers. If not for the applause, he would have heard you groan. Your sister said nothing, only giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

When the speeches started you practically willed your ears shut. Perhaps you would have built a tolerance to them if you had appeared at more of these events, but you couldn't bear to listen to your father and elder brother boast of their achievements to a sea of complacent, nodding heads. It was like a reminder that within the kingdom your father built, you served your purpose by distracting that assassin some years ago and now outlived your usefulness. At this gala, you were decoration only a few ranks higher than a potted plant.

You thanked any and all higher powers when the speeches were over. Father and his crown prince had left the stage to begin their targeted commingling with VIPs, prompting you and your siblings to stand from your seats. They all dispersed before you could look to them to follow their lead. When you stumbled off the stage and distanced yourself from it by leaning against the wall as you walked, hardly any attention came your way. Thankfully, the attention you did receive was from Petra.

"Prince, are you alright? You look troubled," she said, sidling up to you.

"What do I do, Petra?" you asked, intimidated by the sheer size of the room and the attendees within it. Each table was like its own little kingdom with strangers you didn't know and faux-pas to stumble over.

"See how each table has an empty chair or two?" She pointed to the tables nearest you, one full of scaly Sāmm-abraṣ emissaries and another with human diplomats bearing the flag of Bavaria. You nodded. "All the guests are expected to stay seated while dinner is served. They won't get up to dance and drink until the meal is concluded. Right now, only people from the host kingdom— like you, me, your siblings, and other members of the court— will be walking around."

"So I just sit at whichever table and introduce myself?"

"If you even need to. The fact you're walking will show them you're hosting. They'll pay you proper respect without you saying anything at all."

"Hm," you mused. That sounded like a lot of work, especially since you weren't aiming to meander. Finding Amon would be immeasurably more difficult once the crowd was disorganized and inebriated, though, so now was your best chance.

"I've a copy of your list, Prince. Shall I help you navigate it?" Petra asked, holding up parchment.

"Yes, let's," you said. The lengthy document threatened to touch the floor. "Let's begin alphabetically."

"Alphabetically, Prince?"

"By first name."

"Of course, Prince. That means we should visit Aariyeh, Sardar of Anatolia, followed by Abdul II, Knez of Smederevo—"

"Any Eparchs on that list?" You winced at your own forwardness. The charade was wearing dangerously thin.

"...Eparchs?"

"I'm in an Eparch mood at the moment," you explained weakly. Petra looked at you as if checking for signs of illness.

"I see. There's one: Amon II of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia."

"He sounds splendid. Take me to him."

Petra, either from exasperation, deference, or both, folded up the list and took your arm without another word. She led you through the clusters of gala attendees. You could feel every one of their eyes watching you as you caught their attention. Just as the scrutiny was starting to become too much, your eyes found a target of their own. A warm shiver ran through your spine, a sensation the French would call déjà rêvé: a dream made real.

His verdigris eyes locked onto yours. They peered at you from behind short, white curls of shiny hair. His skin reminded you of the bluebells in the gardens, and his pert, curled horns were a shade darker. He flashed something between a grin and a smirk at you, revealing pearlescent teeth with canines that could be mistaken for fangs.

Amon was breathtaking and he knew it.

If your arm wasn't in Petra's grasp already, you never would have made it to the chair. She struggled a bit as she plopped you into it, your leg brace protesting with clicks and creaks. The other tieflings at the table, all varying shades of azure, stopped what they were doing to acknowledge your arrival. You gave them a weak nod while you regained your composure.

"Greetings, delegation from Lower Makuria and Elodia. I'd like to introduce you to our Middle Prince," Petra said from over your shoulder, upon which she planted a firm hand. She squeezed hard.

"I'm pleased to meet you all," you managed to get out. Your audience of tieflings nodded and muttered.

"As am I, Middle Prince." Amon set his cutlery down and rested his chin on interlaced fingers. His voice was high and carried a boyish, scheming air; you envisioned him stealing lumps of sugar from a pantry. "I didn't think my kingdom warranted such a visit. What brings you to my little exclave of Nobatia?"

"A whim."

"How quaint," he said, still smirking. His gaze shifted as he eyed his all-tiefling entourage. The intent was to communicate something, though you didn't know what.

"I am the middle prince, after all. I've few obligations. None, actually," you said.

"Hm," Amon said, looking decidedly amused. "We may have more in common than we thought." His retinue nodded along with his observation.

"Surely you are a busy man? You are Eparch of not one, but two territories."

"Do you know what the title 'Eparch' entails, Middle Prince?" Amon said, more as a targeted quip than an actual question.

"I... am not familiar, I admit," you ceded.

"An Eparch is a figurehead. Makuria and Alodia have long been ruled by invaders and rebels, respectively. I'm kept in a symbolic position to preserve what's left of Nobatian culture," Amon sighed. "In fact, I was sent here in place of the true rulers since they thought it so unlikely that you would have anything important to say to us. Anything other than absorbing us into your hegemony, of course."

You averted your gaze. He clearly was not happy with his status, and while his discontent wasn't targeted at you, it hovered about him like a cloud. He picked at the remainder of his meal while the cloud dissipated and you plucked a topic from the clearing air.

"How was your journey here? You've come a long way," you said.

"It was pleasant enough. Your trains and... horseless carriages are quite impressive," Amon said, pausing. "What's your name for them again?"

"Automobiles," you answered.

"Yes, automobiles." He rolled the word in his mouth as if tasting wine. "Though you have such a fine river and only use it for cargo. A felucca would have made my journey quite enjoyable."

"A felucca?"

"Ah, it's my turn to inform you." Amon smiled. "A felucca is a sailboat we use on the Nile. It's built for comfort, with carpets instead of hardwood decks. Some even come with a kitchen, and it's unheard of to sail without finishing a pot of tea."

"It sounds lovely," you said. "Lavender tea, I hope."

Amon raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, my favorite," he looked amused. "How did you know?"

"A whim," you answered. "The same one that brought me over to your table."

"I see." His eyes locked with yours for a lengthy pause. His retinue shifted in their seats at the uncomfortable silence. He was thinking hard about something, but the subject of his thoughts remained unknown to you. If he truly shared the dreams with you, surely you must have gotten the point across by now?

"It was lovely chatting with you, Middle Prince." He broke the silence and straightened his posture. "But I would hate to keep you when you have other guests to see."

"I really don't—"

"Nonsense, my prince," he interrupted, "go on and mingle. Perhaps, if we're lucky, our paths will cross when the festivities begin in earnest."

You couldn't believe your eyes. Did he wink at you?

"Of course..." you said, slowly realizing he was scheming. "Enjoy the gala." He locked eyes with you again.

"Oh, we will."

You had resumed hovering with Petra on the edges of the great hall. More staff had filed in to take away dirty dishes and the remains of the guests' meals. The dance floor had been opened, the musicians were in position, and staff bearing silver trays readied drinks for the merry and hors d'oeuvres for the peckish.

"How was your visit with the Eparch?" Petra asked.

"Enlightening," you answered cryptically. The need for secrecy hadn't passed, but now you were unsure of what charade to uphold. You only knew Amon was in on it as well.

"I trust that means it went well?"

"Yes, I think so." You scanned the crowd of attendees, which had now gotten up from their seats and begun to mix and intermingle. Amon disappeared like an ace into a shuffled deck. Petra flashed you an impatient expression.

"Prince, do you want me to help you get with him or not?" She said with folded arms.

"Petra!" You gasped. "You're rather forward."

"It's quite literally my job to make sure you end up with him if you wish it, Prince," she assumed a stern tone as if you refused your vegetables. "Give me a yes or no."

You stewed under her gaze. It seemed the pressure and time-sensitive nature of the gala had started to affect her as well, though for different reasons to you.

"Yes." You muttered. She didn't ask for confirmation, instead slipping away into the crowd with nothing more than a nod. Was this part of the charade, still? You had no idea what Amon even wanted, or frankly, what you wanted from tonight.

The musicians started and the small groups that had formed on the edge of the dance floor produced couplets of dancers. They were eager to begin the waltz, a somewhat contentious dance that had only recently come into popularity. You hadn't been practiced in it, instead learning of court dances like the cotillion. As you watched it take place, the dancers seemed awfully close. They were practically pressed against one another!

While you tried to discern the intricacies of this new style of dance before you, that familiar azure face peeked at you from the crowd. Amon smiled and raised his drink in your direction. It was a small gesture but you were helpless to do anything other than join him. Before you knew it, you were at his side in the sea of people and some sort of libation had been thrust into your hand.

"You know, I'm starting to grow partial to this stuff," Amon said, sipping on a duplicate of the drink you held.

"I was under the impression your faith disallowed the consumption of alcohol," you said, watching him finish the glass.

"An easy mistake to make." He handed off the glass to a roving staff member. "Modern Makurians and Alodians don't drink. Nobatians like me do. It's one of the holdovers of my dead culture."

You looked at the glass in hand; it was a clear, cold drink with a slice of lime. As you expected, the taste was bitter and unwelcoming.

"You like gin?" You asked, one taste enough to identify it.

"As I said, it's starting to grow on me," Amon chuckled. "It's not good enough to stop me from missing home, but it'll get me through the night."

"Speaking of home..." you started, looking around. You were unable to spot any other blue-skinned tieflings in the crowd. "where has your retinue gone?"

"I told them to enjoy themselves. As my courtiers, that means they're likely hovering by the exit, waiting to escort me out of here when I leave."

"They seem like a serious bunch."

"They're overprotective," Amon hissed. "As I said, my culture is long dead. They see it as dying. They think they can save it by putting me in a glass case for future generations to study."

"You've given up on Nobatia?"

"Pah! Of course I have!" He deftly procured another drink from a passing waiter. "Nothing will bring the old country back. Nobatia is a minuscule region; I can say with certainty I'm the youngest one left. When I'm old and infirm, Makuria and Alodia will reject the idea of a royal family entirely and I'll finally be allowed to be forgotten."

"That's quite a bleak outlook, Eparch," you gently chided. "Perhaps in war, things would be on a fixed course, but matters of diplomacy are more malleable."

"Perhaps," Amon said, sipping his gin. "But that's enough about me. I'd like to know more about you."

His eyes looked into yours as if he would magick the information he wanted straight out of you. No incantations were uttered, though, and you took a pragmatic sip of gin to fill the pause.

"What would you like to know?" You said.

"I'd like to know about this 'whimsy' you have," Amon probed. "To be frank, my prince, I expected to be out the door by now. Instead, I'm here, conversing with you. It doesn't make sense."

You finished your gin. This was as good a time as any to explain yourself.

"What do you know of oneiromancy?" The question left your lips and slapped Amon across the face. He chuckled.

"The school of magick so vague and unmeasurable it's not even officially recognized?"

"It seems you know the same as most," you said. "Oneiromancy is real. At least, real enough to give me the same dream night after night."

"I see..." Amon was mulling something over.

"In each one of these dreams, though my waking memory is hazy, I remember one thing they all had in common." You took a deep breath. "You."

"We should discuss this in private," Amon interjected, gently brushing your hand against his. You had been so caught up with telling Amon that you forgot you were in the middle of a crowded gala. Concern crept into the corners of his face. "Do you have a place we can go?"

You nodded and grasped his hand in earnest. The spot you took him to was one of the many balconies that overlooked the palace gardens. The sun had set fully at this point, and waltz music lazily floated out of the great hall. A few revelers who had over-indulged caught the fresh air in the hedges below. You and Amon rested on the cool marble balustrade, momentarily admiring the mingling of crickets, music, distant conversation, and the night air.

"I've been having the dreams as well. All of them involving you in some... capacity. I wasn't sure it was you at first. The dreams were so vague..." Amon kept his gaze fixed on the gardens below.

"Were the dreams... um, did you wake up... well..." you stammered. He looked at you knowingly.

"Yes, a few times," Amon answered. He didn't seem nearly as embarrassed as you. "You suspect oneiromancy is at play?"

"The court oneiromancers determined the dreams are being intentionally created. They're not a coincidence."

"Court oneiromancers?" Amon nearly spat out his drink. "My, you do have everything in this kingdom."

"Yes, we have court oneiromancers, but your surprise is beside the point." You had finally found the mysterious Amon, and you didn't want to waste any time on tangents. "Surely you're just as curious as I? Do you know anything about these dreams?" Amon drained the remainder of his gin in response.

"When I was a child..." He paused and shook his head. "When I was a child, my mother told me folk tales. The standard stuff: damsels in distress, slaying horrific beasts, that sort of thing. But she also told me tales of lovers who met in dreams. She said that was how she and father met."

"Something tells me you don't believe in that."

"When I grew too old for fairy tales, I saw it as her way of helping me keep hope that the one would be out there. With Nobatia falling and no suitors left..." he trailed off, setting his empty glass on the balustrade.

"So what if she's right?"

"That's a rather large 'if,' my prince. She was the only one that believed in that stuff... Aside from an uncle who would tell more dreamers-to-lovers tales, but only after drinking too much boukha, and always with a sarcastic tongue. They're just that: tales."

You felt Amon's cloud of discontent precipitate once more. His words were scathing, but not towards you; they spoke to a painful past and familiarity with disappointment. He saw something hopeful, happy, and promising, then cast it down in order to never feel the pain of losing it. You rarely had such clear insights about people, but with Amon it was different. It was as if you had known him for a long time and learned the language spoken by his brow, posture, and eyes. You knew what you had to do.

"Amon," you sighed, placing a hand on his, "even fairy tales originate from some truth, even if only a little. Don't be afraid to entertain the notion that your mother might be right."

You tried to look him in the eyes, but he cast his gaze down to the gardens below. His quick tongue failed him and silence ensued. His hand had reluctantly surrendered itself to your grasp, resting warm and limp.

"Look at me," You commanded with a firmer tone than expected. Reluctantly, he swiveled towards you and his aquamarine eyes found their way to yours. "Think about what you truly want. Don't be afraid to take it."

He swallowed. After a pause of a few heartbeats, his free hand grasped the back of your head, entwined his fingers in your hair, and pressed your lips to his. Your hand that held his grasped even tighter. The two of you were entwined in your own scandalous waltz. You could feel his hunger just as clearly as you felt his discontent when he parted your lips with his tongue. You reciprocated, catching fleeting impressions of his sharp teeth. He tasted like gin and figs. Short, passionate gasps and moans escaped the two of you and joined the chorus of crickets. You pulled away only to catch your breath.

"Amon," you gasped, his name sweet on your tongue. He looked at you with a bewildered expression and flushed navy cheeks. Neither of you could believe what just happened, yet surprise gave way to familiarity. Kissing Amon made your heart race but your shoulders relax. Being breathless and panting in his embrace was as recognizable to you as Petra's morning wake-up calls, or the smell of the gardens, or the feeling of your bedchamber floor on your bare feet. Déjà rêvé.

"I..." Amon sighed, "I shouldn't. I've had too much gin. I've been foolish." He released you from his arms and took several steps backward. Your jaw hung agape as he jogged inside and disappeared from view. Too shocked to try to catch him, you remained outside and alone on the balcony with only the sound of crickets and distant strings to keep you company. Just as silently and perceptively as a cat, Petra crept from the doorway a short while later.

"I saw Amon run away and came to check on you." She looked at your expression and reciprocated with a downtrodden look of her own. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Probably not." You sighed and buried your face in your elbows until all you could see was the balustrade. You sensed Petra take a few steps towards you.

"What happened?" She asked delicately.

"We kissed, passionately. Then he said he was foolish and ran away," you mumbled into your self-embracing arms. Petra rested a hand on your shoulder.

"Some people just can't handle the fast pace and the pressure at galas like this. I'm sure it wasn't personal."

"I know..." you sighed. To Petra, your attempts at flirting simply failed to land. She didn't see the dreams. She didn't see the look in his eyes. She didn't hear the fear of hope in his voice. There were not enough hours in the night to explain to her the true extent of your sorrows.

"There's always tomorrow, Prince."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tonight is only for the Gala," Petra explained, her tender tone turning slightly optimistic, "anyone attending will be staying at least until tomorrow night for the treaty signing."

"So Amon is still here, then?" you asked, finally pulling your forehead from its resting place on your folded arms.

"He was likely running to the guest wing of the palace, where all the other dignitaries will be. If you truly wish to meet with him again, breakfast tomorrow morning would be an excellent opportunity."

You considered things for a moment. If Amon were to stay one more night, then that was one more dream to share. Tonight, you and Amon would spring awake in bed at the same time after another shared dream, but he would be only a few corridors away.

"Petra, get me an oneiromancer." You commanded.

"An oneiromancer? At this time of night? They're probably attending the gala with the rest of the court."

"Petra, this is important," you said. "I haven't exactly been forthcoming about everything in these recent days, and I'm sorry for that... but I need an oneiromancer before I sleep tonight. If you can do this for me, I promise to explain everything soon."

Petra looked at you silently, deciding whether or not to press you for details now rather than later contingent on your promise. She chose the former, nodding and silently fast-walking inside.

Alone once more on the balcony, you leaned on the balustrade and studied the stars. The moon's halo of illuminated night sky was the same color as Amon's lips. With any luck, you'd be seeing them again soon in tonight's dream.

#exophilia #monster x reader #monster x human #romance #male reader #tiefling #male tiefling x male reader #monster love #mlm #monster romance #monster fic #mlm romance

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oohnoniall · 3 years

Text

The Lantsov Emerald [Kaz Brekker x OC] - Chapter Five (Anastasia)

Warnings: cursing, fantasy violence, family drama

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Escaping the palace had been the easy part. Nikolai had shown her all the secret pathways when they were children. They had played games with them. She'd always wanted to be the fairy while he was a pirate or some sort of scoundrel. She had remembered those childhood days fondly throughout her journey to Kribirsk. If she hadn't, she would have been forced to think about the pain in her feet and the fact that she had been foolish enough to not beg her father's permission.

At least then she would've had a carriage.

Upon reaching the city, she had paid handsomely for fresh clothes and lodging. She had bathed, scrubbing her skin raw, and dressed in a plain sky blue gown. She had attempted to plait her hair by herself, although it appeared messy and uneven. Anastasia had never known just how hopeless she was until she had gone days without a bath or her lady maids.

Nikolai would have been so disappointed in her.

She was fresh-faced when she came into the bar. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes took in every single person in the crowded bar. She had thought enough to keep her traveling cloak. There was no telling what any of the patrons would do if they discovered that the princess of Ravka stood before them.

Years of dancing and lessons in how a princess should behave made her elegant. Even in the dusty, dirty bar, she strode forward as though she was on the dance floor. Each of her movements timed to the waltz of her heartbeat. She knew that her gait alone would be cause for attention. What simple maiden walked as though the ground was a dance floor? What young woman acted as though the world should bow before her?

Anastasia had not been around enough women to know what the answer truly was.

She felt eyes on her the entire time she ordered her drink. Kvas like Nikolai had drank with her before he had gone. She had gagged and refused to ever touch any again. The smell still made her wish to gag, but she had to keep up some appearance. She took the glass from the barkeep, thanking him with a small smile. Anastasia then turned her attention to the rest of the patrons of the bar.

Most of them were her subjects. They looked hardened, as though life had done them no favors. They had lines along their features that she had not seen amongst the nobility. They looked as though dirt had encased them their entire lives. Her heart ached for them. Was there nothing that she could do? She didn't have the power to change things. That power lived with her brothers. She would never be Ravka's queen.

Her eyes landed on a small group in the corner of the bar. A boy with dark hair and a wild grin was playing with a revolver, his fingers fiddling on the hammer as though he was waiting for a reason to use it. A girl in deep, navy blue clothes sat beside him. Her features hidden by a hood and her body was nearly as still as the breath that had caught in Anastasia's throat.

At the head of their table sat the guard from the ball. His eyes scanned the room, landing on her. She wondered how many times those eyes had stopped someone in their place. He seemed sharper than he had that night. The angles of his face were made of glass and were likely to cut her if she touched them. He was far too handsome for his own good.

Without thought of her safety, Anastasia headed over to the three of them. She felt as though she was vibrating, excitement coursing through her veins as she neared the table. The man had lied to her. He had snuck into her home. She would find out why. That would be a good enough reason for the last-ditch effort for freedom.

"Mr. Vanzin," she lowered her hood as she spoke, keeping her back to the other patrons. "I've been looking for you."

An amused smile graced her features as she looked down at him. He played off the idea of being at ease, his spine straight and his eyes glancing at her as though she were nothing more than a mouse. But his hands told a different story. The black gloves he wore could not hide the way he tensed. His fingers clenched in a fist that she was certain he would not use on her. He wouldn't dare to create a scene.

"Your Highness," he sounded bored as he regarded her. Anastasia was uncomfortably reminded of most of the people in the palace. "Had I known you were serious about seeing each other again, I wouldn't have left so quickly."

The Zemeni boy offered her a chair beside him. She did not like the grin that stretched across his lips. It was as though he was one of the big cats her nanny had told her about at bedtime. She took the seat nonetheless. This would not be the first time that she had found herself in a den of lions. She dined with monsters each night. She had danced with several the night she had met Mr. Vanzin.

"I'm afraid that I was curious about you, Mr. Vanzin," she crossed her ankles, every bit the picture of a perfect princess. Rasmus would be getting a beautiful bride. "After all, it's not every day that one manages to break into the Little Palace. Nor when a guard lies directly to my face."

"I assure you," his gaze could have cut through ice, "nothing about that night was personal."

"How could it be?" Anastasia's eyes sparkled with amusement. It was like she was verbally sparring with Niki once more. He danced around the questions he didn't want to answer, made her feel as though she would go mad half the time. "You didn't even tell me your real name."

The air surrounding them seemed to grow thick with tension. The girl's hands had disappeared underneath the table while the boy was rubbing the handles of his revolvers. Anastasia would not allow them to frighten her. She would not be afraid and she would not back down.

"You're clever, Princess," his tone was filled with venom. "You should be careful. That's a good way to get yourself killed."

"Is that a threat, Mr. Vanzin?"

"Only advice," he told her before he drank the glass of kvas that had been in front of him. His eyes were dark as he stared at her. Heat flooded her cheeks but she did not let it phase her.

Anastasia had been around princes and lordlings her entire life. She had been around beautiful men and around men who had assumed they were beautiful. She had never let them phase her. She would not let this conman get underneath her skin. Even if it did feel as though she were drowning when he looked at her like that.

"You'll forgive me if I don't take it," she said, praying to the Saints that the dim of the bar was hiding her heated face. "Now, why don't you tell me who you are?"

"So you can cart us off to a Ravkan prison?" It was a valid thought. Had she been any of the other members of her family, she more than likely would have called for help. But had she been anyone else in her family she wouldn't have had to run away from her future.

Nikolai got to be the scholar, Vasily the king. All Anastasia was good for was a high bride price and to be her father's favorite pawn. Her future had never been her own. It never would be.

"I assure you," she leaned forward, strands of her hair falling into her face. "I would not turn myself in just to give you up."

For a split second, his left eyebrow rose and an expression of confusion crossed his face. It was gone before Anastasia could blink. He wore his mask well. Almost as well as those in her court. Maybe he was like her. A royal running away from a future that did not exist.

"What do you mean?" The Zemeni boy piped up, his expression more confused than the other two. Although it was more amused than anything. "Turning yourself in just means you're in as much trouble as we are."

"It would appear that way, wouldn't it?" She glanced at him, an amused smirk playing on her lips. "My family plans to ship me to Fjerda on the eve of my birthday. I'll be wed to Prince Rasmus the week after," she knew they didn't need an explanation. Nor had they asked for one. However, she needed to say something. Needed to tell someone how angry she was about the entire thing.

Nikolai was gone. This band of criminals seemed to be the next best thing.

"You decided to leave your cushy palace and come after me as a result of your impending wedding?" His face remained impassive, something that she could not read. She hated that he wore the mask of a courtier. "I don't know if I'm impressed or insulted."

"I hope it's impressed," Anastasia kept her eyes on his, not daring to back down from the demon in front of her. "At least enough to allow me to know your name."

"It's Kaz," he did not tell her his surname. She supposed it did not matter in the long run. It wasn't as though she would be spending long with the man. He would more than likely give her up before she had a chance to find Nikolai. Before she had a chance to see the sea and feel the wind in her hair.

Anastasia wished for freedom. A caged bird sang a lonely song. The song in her heart wanted more than that. It wanted to be among the greats, among the waltzes that she had adored from childhood. She wanted to live her life as she chose. If only so she could spend every second of each day surrounded by the notes, feeling the melodies in her heart and the beats in her heart. It was not a dream that any of Ravka's nobility would have understood.

None but Nikolai.

"Kaz," his name felt rough on her tongue. The syllables were brutal and cutting. Just like the man in front of her. "Perhaps we could make a deal."

"What sort of deal would you offer?" His tone was indifferent but the spark in his eyes told her that he was at least intrigued.

"I want passage. My brother is attending university in Kerch. I wish to see him a final time before I leave. I will keep the guards off of your back," she said, keeping any passion or hope from her voice. Vasily had once told her that negotiating meant selling your soul. That having too much enthusiasm would give her opponent the upper hand. Maybe he'd had a point.

"We can avoid the guards without you, Princess," she hated the way he said it. Like it was an insult instead of her honorific.

"I can also offer payment," she said almost lazily. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her cloak, pulling out a ring that should not have been in her possession.

She tossed it onto the table. The emerald sparkled in the light, the face perfect in every way. The Lantsov Emerald had been the stuff of legend when she was younger. As she had grown up, she had realized that it was nothing more than just a pretty gem. One that her parents prized above all others, but a gem nonetheless.

It was supposed to go to Vasily's future bride, but Anastasia had found it unfair. She had stolen it from her mother's chest in the dead of night. Then, she had escaped using those secret passages. She had known the emerald would come in handy. Although she had assumed it would be used to prove she was the Princess of Ravka. Not payment.

Kaz looked at the emerald for a second before he looked back at her. "I'm listening."

"The Lantsov Emerald has been in my family for generations. It's Ravka's greatest treasure. I'm offering it to you for safe passage to and from Kerch. Also, protection while we're there. I'm willing to add three million kruge for you and your crew upon my safe return."

She doubted that her parents had that much money. Or that they would be willing to pay that much for their only daughter's safety. She was ruining their plans. But she didn't care. They would ship her off without her ever seeing Nikolai again. They would sell her before she had the chance to find herself.

Kaz looked at her, his gaze was unyielding and colder than the ice of Fjerda. She wondered if he had learned to be cold or if it had just come naturally to him. Was he a monster of a man? Or a man who had become a monster? There was a story there. Something that was hiding beyond his eyes, beyond the facade he painted on. The facade that she only hoped was a facade. She didn't know what she would have done had he admitted to it all being real.

"Do you expect any of this to be easy, Princess?" He questioned, watching her as though she held a dagger in her hand instead of a valuable emerald.

"No, quite the opposite actually." Anastasia was not an idiot. She knew they would have to cross the Fold, find passage on a ship, and prey to all the Saints that she was not followed by her parent's guards. She doubted they had even noticed her missing. The Sun Summoner disappeared at the perfect tie. She wouldn't have been able to slip away without the distraction.

"We'll have to wait for a skiff," Kaz sat up straighter, almost as if to intimidate her. She matched his posture, not daring to back down for a single second. "No one knows how long that might take. A ship to Kerch will be another question entirely."

"I assure you, Kaz," the name stabbed her throat, "I am prepared to stay as long as necessary. I will not go to Fjerda without seeing my brother."

"Your brother will not be easy to find. Do you know how many rich sons have been sent to university?"

"Nikolai will be quite easy for me to find." He didn't need to know that he would have an angry prince to deal with during all of this. Once Nikolai heard of her disappearance, he would be angry. He would claim she had no idea what she was doing. That she was being reckless and stubborn. That there had been no reason whatsoever for her to leave the safety of the palace. He would have told her that she was stupid for trusting a man who had broken into their home.

She would take every second of his tongue lashing. As long as it kept her from never seeing him again.

"I will have other business in Kerch," Kaz stated as he watched her. He was looking for any sign of weakness. She knew that he would try to betray her. He would see her as another piece on his chessboard. Just as everyone else had.

She was no longer willing to be a game piece.

"I'm quite aware of that," there was no reason for her to be the only job he'd take on. Even if she was offering more money than he'd probably ever see in his life. Money she did not know if she had. "Now, do we have a deal?"

He did not offer her his hand, unlike what she had seen other men do with her brothers. She didn't know if she was supposed to be offended by the slight or not. Surely it had more to do with how he felt about the deal than anything to do with her. That or her nails were in a worse state than she had previously realized.

"The deal is the deal, Princess." She wondered if she would ever hear anything else come from his lips. Would he call her by her honorific the entire time? Or would he loosen up? She didn't think it was important enough to complain about it. No matter how grating it was to hear him use it with nothing but venom in his tone.

Anastasia picked the ring up from the table, giving him a kind smile. "You'll get this once I've been returned to Ravka, safe and sound."

Kaz said nothing, just nodded his head as she stood from the table. At least he knew better than to fight her on when he would get his payment. It was probably for the benefit of her peace of mind. If she trusted him not to slit her throat, then maybe she would be less likely to put up a defense. She didn't know for sure.

"Enjoy your night," she told the three, giving them a curtsey. Her skirts flourished around her, almost making her wistful for a night of dancing underneath the stars. "I expect to see you here tomorrow."

"Of course," he nodded his head once, looking at his crew instead of her. She wondered if they thought she was all talk. Surely a princess would run from danger instead of towards it. She should have been trapped in her golden cage with her jewels and her grand piano that she was not allowed to touch. They would assure she'd change her mind before entering the Fold.

The look on his face told her everything that she needed to know. He may not have expected her to come after him, but he knew now to expect her to back out. To do anything other than what she had said. Surely he should have realized by now that Anastasia was a woman of her word. She'd found him. She'd stolen the greatest heirloom her family had and run away from home. She had done everything that no one would expect from her.

The same things they would expect from Nikolai.

The thought nearly blinded her as she stepped into the sunlight. Had she begun missing her brother so much that she had decided to act as though she were him? He would have told her that it was a waste of her own potential. He would blame himself for making her a mirror of him. It would be bad enough to have one of them roaming the streets of Ravka. They didn't need two.

But she knew that she was not like her brother. She didn't see the world as one big game that she had to win. She just wanted to dance, to feel the music filling her veins and speaking in it's beautiful secret language to her soul. She knew it was a silly wish, one that she would never truly get to experience. She'd have to marry a man she didn't love. She would have to dance only when it was appropriate. Anastasia would lock herself up for her country.

She just needed a chance to dance before she did so.

Kerch may have been known for it's criminal underbelly, but it was the only safe place for her. She would be far from whatever trouble the Sun Summoner was bringing. She would be able to find Nikolai. Anastasia would be able to yell at him for hours at a time for not writing her back as much as he should. She would be free for the first time in her life.

As long as she did not get her throat cut or held for a ransom it should be perfectly safe.

Anastasia headed back to her room. It was not safe to dawdle on street corners. She had no idea if her parents had discovered that she was missing. She had no idea if anyone would be out looking for her. Vasily wouldn't be. He had too much to do, too much to prepare for. The time for him to take the throne was almost upon them.

He had less time for his little sister than normal. She felt as though Nikolai had abandoned her. Perhaps this unwanted isolation had been the truth behind her desperate need to flee. Perhaps knowing that she was alone, and would be for the rest of her miserable life, had been what drove her to running as far as she could from the walls of her gilded cage.

She slipped up the creaky stairs, using the gentle creaks as though they were a melody. She craved music. Craved hearing the waltzes, the symphonies. She needed it as though it was oxygen. She needed to hear every beat, feel every note. Alas, her life would not go in that direction. She would sooner end up hidden behind blocks of ice than in a symphony hall. Especially after what she had done.

As the princess entered the room she had rented, she did not notice a figure standing silently in the corner.

She took off her cloak, tossing it down on a small chair in the corner of the room. Her back was to the silent woman, never once noticing her as she began to freshen up. The day was still long, the sun having only just hit the middle of the sky. She planned on actually doing something besides make shady deals in the back of a pub.

Anastasia lifted her face, water dripping from her eyelashes. She caught sight of the woman in the mirror, her spine instantly stiffening.

"Your Highness," her voice was soft as she stepped out from the shadows. "We've a lot to discuss."

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narrators-journal · 3 years

Text

Life after the fact

CW: mentions of some nasty stuff related to kids.

First part: Here

For the next few days you were a mess. Between the morning sickness and the guilt of having murdered someone, you were throwing up every bit of food or water you tried to digest, every shadow and small noise in your crappy, dirt cheap apartment at night sent you into a break down, sickened more with fear and the force of your sobs when you got overwhelmed. You never felt like you could relax, everything was nerve-wracking, and especially when you went outside. However, as the weeks passed, you got a handle on your fears. You weren't exactly okay, but you forced yourself to adjust and move on as best you could. As if the paranoia wasn't enough, you also had to deal with being pregnant on your own now. Oh god, I should've just stayed with Illumi! What the hell am I supposed to do about this whole thing?! You thought one night as you sat in your windowless bathroom, curled around the toilet, vomitting from the nerves, nausea, and violent sobbing, I wish I could just go back...apologize and just go back to the way things were. you lamented as you sucked in shakey, cold breaths that burnt your throat. It wasn't like you'd planned this far ahead, your escape attempt was a heat of the moment thing, fuelled by the fear of what might happen after you gave birth and the gut feeling that your partner would doom your child to a life akin to his own, which was definitely not a normal, healthy, or happy one. So, now you were left to suffer the last, stubborn thrashes of winter alone, in a crappy little apartment with walls so thin you could feel the last icy wind of winter when it blew, struggling with pregnancy symptoms and relentless paranoia of what will happen if or when Illumi finds you. After that night, you decided it was best to do what you could to lessen your stress, but that was easier said then done. For one, no matter the steps you took to ensure your safety, taking jobs great distances from where you live, whipping up a fake identity to use for work, limiting how often you went out, you could never fully convince yourself that you were safe from the Zoldyck family. Another thing that stopped you was your financial situation. You managed to nab a bit of cash from the car you'd stolen from the butler, using most of it on a cheap car, but, while a reasonable amount still, you still ended up taking up a job as a maid-for-hire of sorts, and usually your employers would tip you terrifically when they figured out you were pregnant, but with the gas bill, food, and the sketchy amount of rent you had to pay, you had little to nothing left to save for a better place or the baby. Finally, you realized after looking into it at one of your employer's homes during your break, that you were too far along in your pregnancy for termination, since at that point you were somewhere in your fourth month, so that left you with almost no other option than to find a way to give birth. After that, you just settled for having the child at home to avoid the paper trail a doctor's office would need and than leaving the baby at a church. They'll take the kid in and put it into foster care, which is a safer gamble than the Zoldycks. You thought, wiping the beginnings of tears from your eyes as you drove to the day's job. For the remainder of the day, you focused on your work, cleaning up toys, doing and folding laundry, making beds, the usual duties for this particular household, and did your best to not think about your past. That is, until you heard someone knock on the door while you were upstairs mopping the bathroom. The sound instantly sent ice down your spine. It felt as if the world skipped a beat in time with your heart, but at another knock, you took a deep breath and inched towards the distant door. Your heart thundered in your chest so hard that it hurt, but you picked your way down, staying away from the windows and doing your best to move stealthily with the slowly growing bump of your stomach until you could look out of the front door's peep hole. Thank the heavens it was simply your employer, a neatly dressed, glasses clad woman who you'd heard was a lawyer or CEO of some sort, not an assassin. So, just as she gave a third, more impatient knock, you opened the door, "I'm so sorry ma'am! I couldn't move too quickly to get to the door sooner," you said, not meaning to sound near hysterics, but at least that made you sound super apologetic as the woman huffed in annoyance, "It's fine, I just had my entire day upheaved." she said, walking in and you swiftly shut the door, not thinking much of the figure you saw standing at the roadside from the corner of your eye, she commonly had other helpers here when you were, it was likely just a gardener or someone to bring in her bags. "First, I burn myself with coffee at 6 am this morning, than I have to drive three damned hours to the airport just to find out my business trip was cancelled because the client decided to cut ties with my work! Ugh, don't get me started on tr-" The woman paused her ranting and hair adjustments suddenly, looking at you with concern and confusion on her dark-skinned face, "Are you alright, dear? Why are you crying?" Her voice was gentle, all annoyance gone when she'd realized you were upset, but it still made you jump and feel a small spark of guilt at the show of vulnerability, something you'd been fighting to repress. But your emotions had been so unpredictable recently, it only made sense that you failed. "I-I'm sorry, I don't know what's come over me," you sniffed, scrubbing at your tears as she put a reassuring hand on your back and led you to a chair, letting you sit down, "Don't worry about it, I just thought I was the one to upset you. Are you sure you're alright?" You nodded as she looked you over, looking so parental and compassionate, it made your heart hurt. And just like that, even more tears were falling onto your clothes as a sharp knife of loneliness cut through you. You did your best to at least slow the streams of tears, but seeing this woman you hardly knew be so motherly and understanding reminded you of your own mother, or maybe those times Kikyo had helped you through the beginnings of morning sickness or nausea. Either way, your boss' actions hit a chord and now you were trying not to bawl while she offered you tissues and talked you down from the hormonal extreme. "I see now, must be the pregnancy talking." she laughed a little, "when I was expecting my eldest, the mood swings never really left, and just about anything would set me off. I remember one time, my husband had made me breakfast and I ended up sobbing over it for a good five minutes while he was just mortified." she said, giving you a comforting smile when you weakly laughed. Finally, when you were past the violent sobs, your boss helped you up and led you to the kitchen so you could splash some water on your face and she could get you some tea to help you relax. Once you were settled down at the table, warm cup of tea between your hands, your boss sat at the table with you and let you take a few sips before asking, "So, do you have any plans set for the baby?" she asked, and you felt her warm eyes drawing out all of your issues. You started out pretty vague, admitting you weren't really sure of what to do, but that soon led to you going into detail about how you didn't think you'd be keeping the child and probably putting them up for adoption since you couldn't afford them. You told her that you felt so bad for the decision, but you didn't want to raise your child in poverty or worsen their quality of life in general, which your boss understood, laying her dark hand on yours soothingly as you spoke. For the next hour or so, you sat with the woman and she helped you through all of your options. You told her that the father of the child wasn't the best, so she explained good ways to limit contact and how to keep track of every instance of neglect, abuse, or anything of the sort just in case things required lawyers and courts. By the time you'd left her home for the day, you were feeling much better about your situation, and while your plans to put the baby up for adoption hadn't changed, you were much more confident in the steps to go about it. You kept that job for two or three more trips, telling your boss of your plans to stop after that. She understood perfectly and made sure your pay was doubled, "Pretty soon you'll come up on being six months, you won't be able to do a lot in your third trimester." she pointed out after you refused to accept her money, but that wasn't the only kind thing she did for you. No, on your second to last job with her family she had basically spun you around at the door and herded you out to her car. "I understand you're trying to keep as low a profile as possible, but I can't in good conscious not have that child checked on." she told you as she drove you to a check up, patting your hand and just letting you bawl, but she refused to let you apologize for her helping. In fact, when you thought back on the drive after the appointment, she seemed somewhat sad, but you couldn't exactly place why and on the drive back you didn't want to ask and open an old wound. So, you simply didn't say anything about it and went home that night with knowledge that so far your baby seemed fine, and a tip from your boss to find some time to relax more, "Make sure to destress as best you can, it's good for your mental health and the baby." she advised, as motherly as ever. So, you decided on your drive home to give that advice a shot. At least once. So, after your last job with that family, while spring time was beginning to really settle in outside, leaving a crisp but fresh feeling night in the wake of a lukewarm day, you had borrowed a book from a neighbor and ran yourself a warm bath to hopefully relax in, even if you likely wouldn't be able to get out of it super easily when bedtime rolled around. Despite that fact, sinking into the warm water felt like heaven to your aching back, breasts, and hips. So, you relaxed in the water for a long while, two hours or so, just reading the book and occasionally putting your hand on your belly to feel the baby kick. The only thing that could've made the night better was if you had some scented candles and maybe a shoulder rub, but you were content with settling for this. All around, the night was near perfect, and that was somewhat because you refused to let your anxiety at the little creaks of your floor or the sounds of your neighbors opening their own doors in the ratty old hall destroy your good time. Eventually, you did get out of the cooled water with some work and got dressed in your comfiest clothes before going to bed, feeling rather happy and relaxed, and thus falling asleep rather quickly. That night, you had quite the weird dream. You weren't a stranger to nightmares about Illumi or the Zoldycks, but this dream was much more melancholy. At the start, it was pretty normal, a nonsensical flurry of dream-logic-fuelled, stream of consciousness, but than things got a bit easier to follow, and the dream took a turn from non-sense, to a bittersweet dream of laying in bed with Illumi again, letting him feel your belly and generally being happy with an undertone of 'something's off' to it. When you woke up the next day you were hit with a tsunami of yearning for that scenario, or any scenario that meant you got cuddled and comforted, and didn't feel so crushingly alone. For the twentieth time since the beginning of the month, you thought of returning to the Zoldyck estate, or at least making it easier for your fiance to find you, but than your common sense kicked in to stomp out that fantasy. No! If I go back my life will be more than just miserable boredom and restrictions. It'll become worse than hell! Illumi will be pissed beyond belief and will probably do something extreme to me! Your fearful inner voice had a point, Illumi had already threatened you when you'd asked to go out without him that day, he'd undoubtedly do worse to you for not only trying to run, but staying gone for so long and putting your baby under so much stress. Oh god, what would he do if I miscarry? The mere thought of his reaction was enough to settle the debate. You'd stay gone. You'd put up with the apartment that smelled of wet dogs and smoke, the paper thin walls, the exorbitant rent, you'd leave your baby at a church once they were born, and you'd go off the grid. If you could help it, you'd never go back to face Illumi and his family.

#Illumi x reader #sequel #outrunning obsessions #hxh #hunter x hunter #x reader #sequelette #Illumi zoldyck #fanfiction #quotev

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smeraldos · 3 years

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In Which You Meet a Wizard Without Knowing

gif: @bts_westv on twitter

↬ characters: taehyung x reader

↬ genres: fantasy, adventure, a 'lil fluff. Howl's Moving Castle!AU

↬ words: 1.5K+

↬ summary: While your sisters dreamt of success and affluence, you stuck to what you knew. It was better that way. Less risky. For any who inquired, your hats went out into the world for you.

What you didn't expect was to encounter a mystery of a man, and along with him, a misadventure for two.

In all his years of drifting, the spirit has never met someone who sought him out. Some took a little coaxing, a little dangling of the fruit, and others took a slight push off the edge, but this.

This boy was ripe for the taking. He wasn’t innocent, no. He knew what he’d come for, and that pleased the spirit. He shrunk himself into the size of a kumquat and leapt into the boy’s hands.

Once the deed is done, he began, there is no undoing.

The boy told him he knew. He was very solemn about it. He had the face of someone who could have become a great man.

The spirit looked at him with an expression often mistaken for pity. Then he told the boy to swallow him, and the boy’s heart was no more.

The rumors flying about the wizard V are quite sensational.

They give him flair; an air of dark, beguiling intrigue he does not wish for, yet welcomes all the same. They give him a character to play. And now, he’s landed the part of a dashing escapee, leading his pursuers down a network of sharp turns and secret alleys.

Ahead, the sun gleams like a penny scrubbed to shine. The sky is sweet and rosy. A guard courts a young lady…how trite. V would have left the two alone had he not noticed the lady, no lure of a smile or blush upon her cheeks.

You back away, your dress blending in with the wall. Your eyes search desperately for an escape, eventually finding his. Well. He sighs. It wasn’t as if he was planning to leave you be. That would be quite heartless.

"I'm late, aren't I?" V asks, announcing his presence. "Forgive me, I lost track of the time. To the theatre?"

You accept his proffered arm, hesitant. He can tell you're a bit wary, and rightly so.

“And where do you think you’re going?” The guard demands, blocking his exit. “The lady and I haven’t finished our talk.”

“With all due respect," V says, suppressing a scoff, "I think you are.”

In an instant, the guard stiffens. His eyes widen. “What--” He starts, but marches off before he can finish.

With that pest gone, V turns his attention back to you...who really can’t be more than twenty. You look dreary in your choice of attire -- gray shawl, gray dress, dull hat over a meek face. If it were not for your stunned look, he’d say you lacked spark. Yet his business lies not in assessing your appearance. He's running short on time. “Do you mind telling me where you’re headed?”

“Pardon?”

“I’ll be your escort for the evening," he explains.

“Oh,” you blurt out, letting go of his arm, “thank you, but an escort won’t be necessary.” With a hasty dip of your head, you leave, bumping into a woman in the process. When you move to apologize, you realize she has no face.

Just a dark head and a liquid, convulsing body.

"So where to?" The gentleman asks, and this time when he approaches, you don’t hesitate to take his arm.

"Cesari's," you murmur, lest the creature hear you. It’s where your sister works, and you've been worried enough as it is.

He guides you briskly down a cobbled path. "I'd advise you not to look back."

In the distance, you hear a collective groaning, the crack of wood splintering. Low at first, the groaning rises steadily in pitch, the crack of wood quickening like strikes of a whip drawing blood. Your heart drums fast. Suddenly, a dark creature swoops toward you, screaming shrilly. V turns you abruptly to the right.

Phantoms lurk around the corner, shrieking as they lunge, but the next alley leads to a wall. Your breath catches. From the cracks burst out more phantoms, and you grip the gentleman's sleeve, squeezing your eyes shut.

The next moment, you can't feel the ground. The howling and screeching fall away, growing softer and softer until you can hear them no more.

You venture a look.

"Careful," the gentleman warns, a second too late. "We're quite high up."

Quite high up? You'd have to be -- you don't know, geography has never been your strong suit -- a few hundred meters above the ground! You're flying. There’s nothing to hold onto except the gentleman's bejewelled hands, and while the view of Market Chipping is beautiful, you're going to fall.

"Are you mad?" You ask, trying not to panic.

He laughs. "I'm surprised you didn't notice. Now take a step."

Your first one is shaky. Without any surface to step on, it feels like you're sinking instead of floating.

"Imagine you're taking a stroll," the gentleman suggests. "Look, there’s the patisserie, the flora, and the...fauna. Strange, that shouldn’t be there.”

To your horror, his grip on you loosens just a bit, and you yelp, prompting his attention.

”Why don’t you think of a song?” He asks.

“A dirge, you mean. A funeral song.”

“I know what a dirge is,” he snaps. “You, on the other hand...”

It didn’t work.

V thought he could distract you with a squabble, but your palms are still as clammy as ever.

So to pacify your stubborn fear (so tangible he can feel it), he coaxes you into giving him a tour of Market Chipping. At first, you insist it's been quite some time since you've set foot outside and you're likely missing a place or few. How long is quite some time, he asks, mostly in jest, and is surprised when you tell him. He doesn’t show it. Instead, he assures you it’s of little import, because really, he's just settled in, so do you know any merchants who sell paintings? He's been itching for something to spruce up his residence -- the walls are bleak and empty.

By the time you reach Cesari’s, the stars are just beginning to shimmer. Night falls rapidly over the horizon, and you're surprised at the sudden desire you feel to prolong the conversation.

"Would you like to come in for biscuits and tea? Surely Joy can get us a discount--" You catch yourself, noting the lustrous gold winding his velvet cape, the violet glint of sapphires dangling from his ears. "Not that you'll need it."

"No," he says, releasing your hand gently. "But I appreciate the offer. I must get going."

"Good night, then," you say. "And thank you for escorting me. I enjoyed your company."

He smiles a soft smile, his most disarming one yet. "The pleasure is all mine." With a slight bow, he vanishes from sight.

The sweet scent of cinnamon and sugar beckons you into Cesari's, yet you feel no urge to enter. Lingering by the balcony, you watch the festivities below, the lights and colorful dresses appearing small and whimsical, a bit like you’re peering through a snow globe. For the first time in a while, you feel a childlike wonder. You hadn't realized you missed it.

Too late you realize you should have asked for the gentleman's name.

"Who was that?" A bright voice, clear out of nowhere, asks. "I didn't get a good look."

"Joy!" You exclaim, recognizing the fair features of your sister. Although she seems a bit thinner. It worries you, but you bite your tongue. Joy, after all, doesn't take to chiding. "What are you doing here?"

"Getting some fresh air." She stretches leisurely, a mischievous grin on her lips. "So imagine my surprise when I hear my sister offering a discount without consulting me first."

"You heard that?"

"The pleasure is all mine," she mimics, putting on an exaggerated, deep tone.

"Well, I suppose it serves me right."

"Please!" Joy laughs. "You shouldn’t be so proper. What are biscuits and tea compared to your happiness?"

"Not as--"

"No," she interrupts. "Don't answer that. I'm doing well here despite the amount of pesky suitors. They're nothing I can't handle, so j...just let me help you thrive, too. So long as it isn't V you're handing your heart to."

You miss the awkward falter in Joy's words, touched and baffled as you are by her sentiment. "Doesn't he only eat the hearts of beauties? I'd be more concerned if I were you."

"Or," she muses, "he feeds on beautiful, innocent hearts, and we've been fools all along."

When she looks at you, chills creep up your spine. "Are you trying to frighten me?"

"Well, do you have a beautiful heart?" She retorts.

"I don’t know."

"Exactly," she says. "And no one can fathom why V chose to stay here of all places. That's why we--"

"Joy!" Someone shouts from inside.

"I'm on break!" She shouts back, but the woman calls out to her again. Joy pulls an annoyed face, and for a second, you think you see a bit of Irene in her expression. Then she breathes and returns to her pleasant self. "Come in." She twists the doorknob open. "I'll finish telling you later."

As you follow her, a creature slithers under the balcony, quiet for now.

It's dark and pulsing.

#bangtanarmynet #taehyung x reader #taehyung x y/n #taehyung x you #taehyung imagine #taehyung scenarios #taehyung fluff #bts au #bts au fic #bts fluff #bts imagines #bts scenarios #my fic

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justshamie · 4 years

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Hey dummy, are you okay?

Happy Birthday you nerd @lesly-oh Your art always brightens my day so this is also a thank you!

Here you can read on ao3

Hurt/Comfort

This is btw what I’ve been up to and my evil plan. Hope you all are safe.

‘Little sister’ Catra gasped for air, as if someone punched her right in the gut. She swung her arms, scratching at the ghost in front of her. Her claws found resistance and she immediately jumped away, pulling on the bedsheet wrapped around her. She heard a scream, Adora’s voice filled the bedroom. She gasped and tried to focus on where she was. Pastel pink walls and flowy window curtains. A soft bed with too many pillows underneath her. Her eyes scanned her surroundings, while her heart kept thumping in her chest. She was in Brightmoon.

“Catra?” Adora was sitting on the edge of the bed with her back turned to her. A small trail of blood flowing down a cut on her side. Her hand prodding the scratch gently. Catra’s eyes snapped from the new wound to the scars between Adora’s shoulder blades. She hissed and scrambled towards the blonde. She needed to apologise. Apologise for hurting Adora over and over. To make sure that she made up for all this hurt. Her thoughts were barely following what was happening.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t…” before Catra could finish the sentence she noticed blood on her claws. Everything hit her at once. The smell of Adora’s blood, the vision of seeing red covering her palms, Adora’s expression of hurt. She was never enough, why would that change. She kept hurting the one person she loved. She pushed herself backwards. It wasn’t her anymore, she didn’t want to hurt Adora, she didn’t mean to. The regret was overwhelming, blood was covering her hands, she needed to get rid of it. She jumped to the floor, quickly running towards that pointless, ornamental waterfall. The cold water made her spine shiver, but she kept her hands underneath it.

“Catra?” Adora’s voice was filled with worry, but Catra could barely hear it. Everything around her was buzzing and the red wasn’t disappearing. She started scrubbing hard at the nonyielding stains on her hands. Her throat was stuck, and a sob escaped her lips. Tears forming in her eyes made her vision blurry. If she could just wash it all off.

Adora had to admit that waking up with a sharp pain in her side, wasn’t her idea of a good time. She also had to admit that whatever pain the scratch on her side was causing, was nothing in comparison to the feeling she got seeing Catra’s expression. She didn’t meet Adora’s eyes, and her gaze was focused on her shoulder blades. Ears flopped down as if in submission. Catra looked as if she was ready to throw herself as an offering to save Adora from a non-existent threat. Ready to take a punch for her. That made Adora’s gut clench in an uncomfortable knot. All that she wanted at that moment was to pull Catra in her arms and hold her. Hide her away from all the pain that she went and still was going through. To make her realise that now she was safe, that Adora was safe thanks to her. That Etheria was safe, because of all the sacrifices she made. Most of all, that Adora wasn’t going to let her sacrifice herself ever again. Adora just wanted to be a safe place for Catra. Reality might not have been as she wished, and Adora knew that those were just selfish wishes anyway. Catra needed to feel safe not just because of her, but to be able to deal with her demons and they could work on that. She would be there for Catra. Her partner, her best friend, her love, her home. She would stay by her side. That, however, was the future. This was now. Catra jumped off the bed quickly, almost tripping on her own legs. She scrambled towards the waterfall and pushed her hands underneath the water. Adora noticed the fur on her back stand up and a heavy sob that made Catra tremble. Something was wrong.

“Catra?” she asked, getting up from the bed. Another sob escaped her. Adora came closer to her, slowly. She knew that she was skittish, and she definitely didn’t want to scare her even more. “Hey, what’s wrong?” her voice was gentle and quiet. Tears covered Catra’s cheeks. She sat down next to her, looking at how hard she was rubbing at her hands. That’s when she realised what she was doing. She was washing her hands, after scratching Adora. Air stilled in her lungs and now Adora felt tears pricking at her eyes. Catra looked as if she was about to scratch off her own skin, to get rid of something that wasn’t there anymore. Another sob shook Catra’s body. Adora needed to be calm, but she could feel in her throat that she was about to start crying herself. She put her hands underneath the water, realising how ironic it was that her palm was bloody from when she just prodded at her side.

“I got you,” she said, hoping the tremble in her voice won’t make it sound unconvincing. She gently cupped Catra’s hands in her own, rubbing softly at her palms. That made Catra look at her for the first time.

“Adora…” her name on her lips was more of a whine than anything. “I am so, so sorry. I know that it doesn’t fix anything, but I’ll try make it up to you. I am just so sorry…”

Adora couldn’t stop herself any longer. She pulled Catra into her arms, as if wanting to wrap herself around her. Her chin resting against the side of Catra’s forehead, while her hand found its way into her hair. She rested her legs on Catra’s sides and pulled her into her chest, maybe a bit selfishly, to just know that she won’t run away. Catra didn’t resist. She just let Adora hold her like that. No matter how much regret she felt, she thought, she would let Adora hold her.

“It’s okay, everything is okay now,” Adora said into her hair. She didn’t know who she was saying it to. They just sat there, both just quietly crying. Adora sometimes repeating ‘I got you, everything is okay’, even if to herself.

How long they stayed like that, they didn’t know. They just stayed. It wasn’t a beautiful moment, and later Adora would need a fresh shirt from how Catra wiped her nose in it. Catra’s ear, on the other hand, was damp from Adora’s tears, and she couldn’t say it was a comfortable feeling. Yet they stayed, because all that didn’t matter at that moment. After Catra’s hands found her way around Adora’s back, they calmed down a bit. She still had enough regret about Adora’s scars, and she would make sure to make up for them. But she knew she wasn’t going to hurt the girl in front of her. The one she loved with all of herself, the one that saved her. Adora’s hold loosened, the muscles in her arms letting go.

“Adora, I…”

“Hey, dummy. Are you okay?” Adora said, before Catra could apologise again.

“I’m fine, I’m just…” she tried again.

“Enjoying sitting on the floor with me?” Adora grinned, while a stray tear went down her face.

“Sorry. I’m just sorry. Why are you not letting me apologise?” Catra pushed her chin with her head, sniffling frustrated.

“Because you don’t have to apologise.” Adora said, pulling away to look her directly in her eyes. She cupped Catra’s chin so she would look at her. “You saved me, you saved Etheria, you saved Glimmer and you sacrificed so much. I know that it’s not something that I can fix for you, and I have enough to say sorry for to you as well, and I am. But I forgave you a long time ago Catra, and I will be here to stay and remind you every day of how amazing you are, until you can get that and after. Until you get that you should let you forgive you,” with that she left a kiss to Catra’s forehead.

“You are the dummy,” Catra sniffled and felt tears pick up in her eyes again.

“Hey, I am your dummy,” Adora kissed a runaway tear on her cheek.

“I love you,” Catra said, letting the tears flow.

“I love you too,” Adora smiled that goofy grin, pushing her forehead against Catra’s. And they stayed like that, until Catra’s tears stop coming, and a bit after. Because now they had the time. Now they could talk about everything that happened, and everything that they needed and wanted to talk about. Maybe when more time passed, they would laugh back at it with fondness and humour. About how Adora later wanted to throw out the shirt, but Catra ended up stealing it from her for herself, even if it was torn up. About how Adora never saw Catra be so gentle when she cleaned up her wound. To a point where she stuck her tongue out, while focusing, and it was the most adorable thing ever, as Bow would say. But that was later and now. Now they were together and ‘I love you’ sounded a lot like ‘I’m staying.’

#she ra #spop #catradora #spop spoilers #she ra spoilers #my art #my writing #she ra and the princessess of power #well this hurt to write #hurt/comfort #angst

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monikafilefan · 4 years

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seven years

This is an answer to a couple different anon prompts from a long time ago mixed together. One with Maggie finding Scully’s journal and seeing what she’d written to Mulder. The other prompt was for Mulder to spend a lot of time at Scully’s place after “all things.”

tagging @today-in-fic

Margaret Scully considers herself to be a great many things in life. She’s a conservative woman of God who has quietly voted democrat since the day she said “I do.” A loyal navy wife who has worked her slender fingers to the bone as a stay-at-home mother of four; a stickler for rules who occupies her time spent alone with a well-kept home; a grandmother who loves to spoil her grandbabies with cookies before dinner and always reads “just one last story, Grandma” at bedtime.

She also considers herself an excellent judge of character and has learned over the years when not to pry in the private lives of others without invitation. Though she cannot say she has never let curiosity take over and wishes her children would invite her in to visit those hidden recesses of their minds once in a while.

But blind is one thing she is not.

Arriving at Dana’s for a quiet Mother’s Day brunch after church today has only confirmed her long-lasting suspicions of the current relationship status between her daughter and Fox Mulder. One look at Dana’s flushed cheeks and swooning smile as she utters her partner’s name across the kitchen table would have been enough to satisfy Maggie’s curiosity about whether or not her daughter has finally embraced what lay within her heart.

Yet, there is much more to be seen here than a meaningful smile and pink cheeks.

And Maggie sees plenty.

A pair of men’s running shoes - size twelve - sit snugly by her daughter’s size sevens. A large leather jacket that smells of familiar cologne is slung over the coat rack by the door, only partially hidden by the sweater she’d gifted Dana four months ago on her first birthday of the new Millenium. There are two mismatched mugs resting next to the coffee maker, two toothbrushes inside a cup in the bathroom - bristles touching in comfortable ease - and two towels hanging dry over the shower door. The entire bathroom smells of men’s body wash.

A new development seven years in the making.

Maggie dries her hands at the sink and shuts the bathroom door, smiling warmly as she goes.

“You need help cleaning up, Dana?”

“No.” She shakes her head and turns the water off in the kitchen sink, soap bubbles rising above the dirty plates as she wiggles her rubber-gloved fingers. “I’ve got it, Mom, today’s your day. Why don’t you take a seat in the living room? I’ll make us some tea and we can talk.”

It’s her day, too, Maggie thinks, but will never say. There will always be an ache in her heart at the thought of her child unable to raise one of her own, yet her pain is one she soothes regiously on her knees come Sunday morning.

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m fine.”

Maggie eyes the paired coffee mugs once again and taps each one with her manicured nail, giving her daughter a chance to open up if she so chooses.

“Do these need to be washed, too?” she asks, knowing good and well that they do not.

Dana’s blue eyes widen as they flick to Maggie’s but replies with a casually dismissive, “No. I cleaned them this morning,” before resuming her scrubbing. This time, Dana does so with a renewed flush and a bitten lip.

“That’s good, honey,” Maggie says with a reassuring squeeze to her daughter’s shoulder, but cannot resist adding, “It’s good to spend mornings with those you care about,” as she turns to leave her with her thoughts.

As Dana finishes with the dishes, Maggie allows herself to admire the intimate details of her daughter’s home - now that she knows for certain with whom she’s been sharing so much of it lately. Her slender fingers trail along the bookshelf, scanning the titles of anatomy books, several science journals in which Special Agent Dana K. Scully, MD has been published, and some classic novels she recalls her freckled nose being buried in over the years. All are in alphabetical order. So very Dana.

She chuckles and her eyes catch on a leather book that is not neatly tucked in line with the rest. It’s black with golden letters etched on the cover that simply says “Journal.”

Curious, Maggie holds the journal close and contemplates on whether she should peek, selfishly hoping that more than just the surface-level emotion her daughter allows her to see might reveal itself.

Yet, the thought of betraying Dana’s trust unnerves her. Her daughter trusts so few these days.

As she firmly decides to return such private thoughts to where she found them, she notices a piece of yellow paper slipping out of its back pages. Maggie quickly tries to nab the square bookmark so Dana wouldn’t lose her page due to her mother’s intrusion when the spine flips wide open, fanning out words of heartache her eyes simply cannot unsee.

And every word is intended for someone else.

To whom it may concern,

To my family,

Dear Mulder,

I feel time like a heartbeat, the seconds pumping in my breast like a reckoning. The luminous mysteries that once seemed so distant and unreal, threatening clarity in the presence of a truth entertained not in youth, but only in its passage. I feel these words as their meaning were weight being lifted from me, knowing that you’ll read it and share my burden, as I have come to trust no other…

“Oh, Dana,” Maggie exhales through her fingertips, hesitantly scanning the pages scrawled in intimacy with watery eyes.

...Mulder, if the darkness should have swallowed me as you read this, you must never think there was the possibility of some secret intervention, something you might have done. And though we’ve traveled far together this last distance must necessarily be traveled alone...

Months spent watching helplessly as the bright light of life burning within her daughter slowly faded more and more each day was the hardest thing she as a mother had borne. Watching and waiting for what many thought was the inevitable is something she would never wish upon anyone. And here she is, sneakingly seeking some sort of deeper understanding of what her baby girl has endured.

...Mulder, I feel you close though I know you are pursuing your own path. For that I am grateful, more than I could ever express. I need to know you’re out there if I am ever to see through this...

Maggie sighs and swipes at a tear hovering along her lashes, hands shaking as she adjusts the book to replace it, when the piece of paper floats to the floor.

Bending down to retrieve it, the journal pages flutter open across her lap to another time in Dana’s life. Maggie’s chin quivers at the words displayed before her.

Dear Mulder,

There was a time in the not so distant past when I told you I was throwing this journal out. That I chose to leave my moments of weakness in the past. But the time has come to admit to myself that losing my only child, my daughter that was never meant to be with you by my side, only confirms that the ache of what lies within my heart is meant for you to bear along with me. That this time, the distance must necessarily be traveled together…

Maggie gasps at the strength and conviction laced within her daughter’s words. The raw heartache Dana must still feel after burying a piece of herself is a familiar one Maggie does not have the strength to re-expose.

But her baby has not experienced it alone; she’s had her partner, and that has been enough.

Her eyes burn and a hot tear rolls down the swell of her cheek, splashing onto the next page before she can stop it. Pinching the tear-stained paper between her thumb and index finger, she waves it through air in hopes of drying the smeared ink before she shuts the book. As she does, Maggie turns the page fully and sees a single sentence hastily written over and over with what she recognizes as fierce emotion pouring from her child’s fingertips.

Dear Mulder,

Personal interest is all that I have. Personal interest is all that I have... Personal interest: it’s something I’ll always have, even if I should not.

“Oh, goodness.” She should not be reading any of this. If Dana wants her to know what secrets lie in her heart, she will tell her.

Maggie picks up the yellow paper next to her feet and immediately realizes it’s more than merely just a bookmark. It’s a note addressed to “Scully” that’s written in fresh ink and time stamped for today’s date.

I never imagined you’d invite me to see your private thoughts you’ve kept so well guarded over the years. I’m truly grateful; for your loyalty, your trust… for you, Scully. More than words can ever express.

Sniffling and riddled with guilt, Maggie slips the note meant for her daughter to read in private back behind the journal’s last written entry. This time, Dana’s greeting to the man she’s clearly been loving from afar for years is a very different one.

To my constant, my touchstone...

Maggie quickly shuts the book and stands, heart racing at her lack of self-control as she places the leather bound memento back on the shelf.

She has known for years that her daughter loves her partner a great deal, and that he loves her just as fiercely in return. She’s not an oblivious woman and never has been.

No, she thinks, as her eyes scan the room once again to land on a lone photo of Dana and Fox standing close together at a crime scene, staring into one another’s eyes, blind she is certainly not.

“Mom, I have tea brewing if…” Dana enters the room and stops a foot away as she takes in the likely overwhelming expression on her mother’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Maggie swallows a lump in her throat and smiles softly at her daughter across the room. Suddenly she sees the tomboy with wild red hair and dirty knees; then the teenage girl with freckles and braces kissing a boy on their front porch. She sees a proud Dana graduating with honors and jumping head first into med school, only to be eagerly recruited by the FBI. She then sees that pride and determination focus on a quest that Maggie will never truly understand, but she doesn’t need to.

No, Fox Mulder is the reason Maggie now sees a real and fulfilled happiness on her daughter’s face for the very first time.

“Nothing, honey. Nothing at all,” Maggie assures, and she means it.

Dana cocks a brow - just like her father used to - and points to the kitchen. “Okay, well I’ve a kettle on the stove if you want some tea.”

The house phone rings before Maggie can respond and Dana stares at it carefully, as if considering whether or not she should pick up. At the fourth ring, she gives in and answers with a breathy, “Yes, Mulder?”

Maggie smirks, silently moving about the living room to gather her things.

“The audit has been moved up? To tomorrow?” Dana huffs with her back turned, tapping her nails along her desk. “Isn’t this a little short notice coming from Skinner?”

Walking into the kitchen with her purse and sweater slung over her arm, Maggie removes the teapot from the burner before it screams for attention. She pours her daughter a cup the way Dana likes it and sets it on the dining room table as she finishes her call.

“Yeah... yes, I can do that,” Dana murmurs, failing to fight off a smile before swiftly hanging up. “I’m sorry, Mom I-”

“Have to go?”

“Mm,” she confirms and darts her gaze out the window. Maggie knows the summer sun is only partially to blame for the glow on her Irish child’s porcelain cheeks. “Something like that.”

“Fox needs you.” A question isn’t needed this time and both Scully women know why.

“Yes,” Dana draws a deep breath and nods. “It looks that way.”

Maggie has seen more than enough today to know that it’s always been that way. And when her daughter finally looks at her again, Maggie is staring at her gleefully.

“What, Mom?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Dana runs her tongue across her upper lip, expectant. “You may as well.”

Maggie shrugs nonchalantly, openly grinning now with a motherly confession perched at the tip of her tongue.

“I may be near-sighted, Dana, but I’m not blind yet,” she teases, reaching up to cup her daughter’s reddening cheek. “Not blind at all.”

side note: Mulder leaving evidence of his weekend sleepovers at Scully’s is a little slice of head canon happiness I like to cling to pre Requiem. I do however believe the evidence shows he moved in with her after he came back in “deadalive,” just not beforehand.

#angst #romance #msr fanfic #maggie scully #cancer arc #pre requiem #journal entries #mulder spends weekends at scully's

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years

Text

The (not naked) pin-up calendar

Summary: When you ask for a favor, Bucky (very) grudgingly agrees. What can you do to thank him? Return the favor, of course.

Characters: Bucky x Reader; a plethora of Avengers Warnings: Hardcore fluff. Soldiers wrestling like immature children. Steve being weirded out by nut sacks. Harry Potter references. A hint of naughty times at the end.

A/N: This is silly and fun and what can I say, writing sassy Bucky makes me happy. This is for @beckzorz 1k Writing Challenge (go follow this incredibly talented, beautiful lady), and my prompt was ‘Pin-up calendar’. Thanks a million for hosting Becca, I love you 3000! ♥️

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Overnight, the list gets tacked on the corkboard in the kitchen.

Bucky’s rummaging through the pantry, searching for his breakfast Doritos and a jar of salsa to dunk them in, when he glimpses his name from a distance. Snatching up a butter knife, he wanders over to the wall. When he sees the list header, he whirls around in a flurry of tangled hair and irrational grumpiness.

“What the hell is this?”

Bucky complaining first thing in the morning is par for the course, so both Sam and Steve, strolling in to search for breakfast, ignore him. Sam veers toward the sugary cereal cabinet, Steve heads for the oversize Ironman container housing granola, and Bucky stomps his foot like a toddler.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Steve says seconds later, through an overflowing mouthful of flaxseed and yogurt. “You already agreed. You’re not backing out.”

Bucky spins around and reads the flyer again.

---

“Avengers Calendar Shoot”

See below for your name and photo call timing.

Monday: Carol (10am), Wanda (2pm), Scott (6pm)

Tuesday: Rhodey (10am), Sam (2pm), Steve (6pm)

Wednesday: Tony (10am), Bruce (2pm), Natasha (6pm)

Thursday: Thor (10am), Clint (2pm), Bucky (6pm)

---

Stomping his foot again, Bucky stabs the flyer with the aforementioned butter knife.

“Someone better be yankin’ my dick right now,” he warns. “I definitely didn’t agree to bare my wrinkly nut sack for the whole fucking world to see.”

Sam dry heaves over his Lucky Charms.

Steve’s now filling his Black Widow coffee mug and rolling his eyes.

“What is it with you always trying to be naked? It’s not a naked thing, it’s a charity thing. Innocent children who don’t know what an asshole you are will see this, so you better be wearing clothes,” Steve gives his mug an annoying slurp. “Besides - you already agreed. No takebacks.”

“Steve,” Bucky crisply pivots, launching metaphorical murder darts from his eyes. “We’ve talked about this. Don’t tell me how to live my life.”

“Well it was your girl who convinced everyone to do it, so good luck telling her you’re a liar.” Instead of responding, Bucky holds up a Dorito in front of Steve and peers around the silhouette. Draws a few angles in his head. “What?” Steve asks brusquely.

“Nothing,” Bucky mutters. The chip cracks between his teeth with a puff of toxic orange. “Just makin’ an observation.”

“Just wear your scary leather bondage uniform with your scary mask and stand there all scary. You don’t even need to smile,” Sam says. Spooning cereal in with one hand, his other is attempting to worm its way into Bucky’s bag of chips. Cradling the Doritos under his arm, Bucky twists away, blocking the attack.

“Good way to lose a finger. Don’t touch my things.”

Sam swallows his cereal, ignores the lethal look in Bucky’s eyes, and tries again.

Steve joins in.

And so, when you roll into the kitchen a few minutes later, here’s what you find: three Avengers, three veteran soldiers, wrestling over a bag of Doritos. Bucky has Sam in a headlock, Sam is kicking Bucky’s shins and hitting him with a milky spoon, and for some reason, Steve is dancing around trying to tickle them both.

Clearing your throat, the trio freezes.

You smile.

“Gentlemen.”

Flailing arms and legs instantly break apart. Sam and Steve have the good grace to look chastened, both stammering embarrassed apologies. Bucky simply shoves a fistful of Doritos in his mouth and smiles triumphantly. Striding over to you, he wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Babe, take my side here. You don’t want the whole world to see my nut sack, right?”

“Stop saying nut sack,” Steve hisses. “Nuts are gross.”

“Maybe your nuts are gross Steve,” Sam pipes up, rubbing his shirt with a wet rag, trying to clear away Bucky’s orange powder fingerprints, “but my nuts are awesome.” After a few harsh scrubs, he sees the futility and throws the rag in Bucky’s face. Stalking from the kitchen, he shouts something about laundry wheels and Oxyclean.

When you pluck the bag of Doritos from Bucky’s grubby hands, he releases them easily and grins at your exasperation. Sidling close, he rubs up against you like a needy kitten, so you hug him tight, dipping your fingers down to squeeze his butt.

“Please do it Bucky, I already told them you would. Wear anything you want, you don’t even have to smile,” you murmur in his ear, knowing precisely which buttons to push. “And besides, I bet I’m not the only one who wants to see those pretty blue eyes. Right?”

Bucky purses his lips. Wrinkles his nose. Grumbles under his breath.

And because you’re looking at him all wide-eyed and soft, he gives in.

Like he always does.

“Fine,” he huffs. “Fine. I’ll do it for you.”

“So much drama,” Steve mumbles through his granola. Bucky lunges for him, but Steve drops his bowl in the sink and skirts past, rushing for the door. Looking back, he throws Bucky a challenging smirk, before smacking into the doorframe. There’s a brief ricochet and then he’s scurrying down the hall, laughing as he goes.

“Idiot,” Bucky mutters.

Folding your fingers behind his neck, you turn his face back to you and kiss his stubbly cheek. “Thank you. Reason number one billion and two why I love you.”

At the brush of your lips, Bucky promptly grabs the back of your thighs and hoists you in the air. Spinning around, he shuffles over to the counter and drops you on top. Settling between your legs, hands flat on the counter boxing you in, his mouth finds the open space above your shirt collar and he proceeds to kiss every square inch.

“The things I do for you,” he breathes, sucking his favorite spot along your neck. It makes you shiver, that thing he does with his tongue. “You realize now I gotta go on a diet.”

“What? No, you don’t. You look perfect.”

Disappointingly, he stops that whole talented tongue thing and leans back. Grinding your heels into his butt, you kick him, urging him to stay put. Instead, he sighs in that tragic, pay attention to me way that only Bucky Barnes can do.

“Obviously I’m perfect, so are you by the way, but the camera adds five pounds. I have to preemptively lose it.” Crinkling up his now empty bag of Doritos, he throws it at the trash can and misses by a mile. He gives you a hangdog, pathetic sort of look. “This sucks.”

Bucky Barnes, ladies and gentlemen. The most dramatic human being on the planet.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you don’t need to diet. You could weigh a thousand pounds and it wouldn’t matter, you don’t - “

“Maybe not, like, a thousand pounds,” Bucky interrupts. “That’d make sex super hard. And not good hard. Just awkward hard. You know? Like when Hagrid’s mom and dad had sex. Which I still don’t understand how that’s supposed to work and I’ve done a shitload of research on it, been on all kinds of forums and talked to some experts - there’s a guy at SHIELD who specializes in interplanetary species relationships, I don’t know if you knew that - but anyway it just makes no sense because she would have killed that little guy if he tried to bang her, and I’m sorry, that’s the tea and I’ll fucking fight anyone who disagrees.”

Pausing for breath, he looks so earnest you almost hate to stop him.

“Buck, maybe we try one day where you don’t reference Harry Potter? I know you’re a fan, but - “

“I drew some diagrams,” he continues. “Boning diagrams. But like, I still can’t get it to work.”

Staring into space, he lets his marvelous tactical brain run every scenario of sexual acrobatics required to establish the feasibility of human-giant sex.

This could go on forever. Once Bucky gets knee-deep in fan forum theories, hours will lapse before he swims up for air. Many a morning has found him still in his boxers, laptop on his knees while he smashes the keyboard, arguing with virtual enemies about the physical features of Hogwarts house founders or the complex nuances of international Wizarding trade law.

The truth is - Bucky Barnes is a god damn nerd.

Clapping your hands, you drag him back to real life.

“Focus please. You’re good to do this then? Without the diet?”

“I really really hate it,” he replies, matter of fact, “but I really really love you, so if you want me to, I guess I’m in. But I’m still losing five pounds.”

“You’re my favorite, you know that?” Slipping your hands up under his shirt, you massage the tight muscles alone his spine and he hums happily. Flashing a lazy grin, he boops your nose.

“You know what? I think you should do it too. Be so great to have a sexy poster of you for those long nights when I’m gone and can’t sleep,” he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “If you know what I mean.”

“I’m going to pretend I don’t know what you mean.”

“Whatever. Like you don’t have a folder full of dick pics with my name on it,” he laughs.

“I wish you’d stop sending me those,” you say sternly. “You know this is my work phone.”

“So? You always need fresh material for your diddle box. Keeps the romance alive,” he says. Reaching up behind you, he tugs open the snack cabinet and rummages for a new bag of Doritos. The airtight blurp of a new jar of salsa follows.

“I’m sure I’ll regret this, but - what exactly is a diddle box?”

Massive Winter Soldier eye roll.

“All the pictures and videos and sexy shit you use to masturbate. Clearly.”

“Why do I ask you questions,” you sigh.

“I’m starting my diet tomorrow,” he answers instead, before dunking a fresh Dorito in the salsa.

*****

The next two weeks are spent with Bucky mostly eating raw vegetables and baked chicken breast and loudly commenting on the sorrows of dieting to everyone he encounters.

“You’re being ridiculous Bucky. No one told you to lose weight.”

“No,” he says glumly, crunching a celery stick with a martyred expression. “I need to be hot. Beauty is pain.”

“You are a pain.”

He sighs dramatically. Stares wistfully into the distance. Snaps a carrot in half.

“The things I do for you.”

“Jesus.”

*****

AVENGERS CALENDAR SHOOT THIS WEEK!

Remember to be on time, or we will choose the worst picture of you and print that.

We’re assholes that way.

Thanks,

Management

*****

MONDAY

(SEPTEMBER: Danvers, Carol; Captain Marvel)

Carol throws her bomber jacket over her red, blue, and gold uniform, and adds a sleek pair of vintage Ray Bans. Climbing into the cockpit of her fighter jet, she turns herself all glowy and golden, the color bouncing merrily off the control panel. Tipping her face down to the camera, she flashes the Shaka sign and gives the photographer a huge smile.

(FEBRUARY: Maximoff, Wanda; Scarlett Witch)

Wanda goes all out on all things red. Clad in a long red dress and long coat, surrounded by hundreds of red flowers - tulips and roses and carnations - she curls her fingers and everything around her begins to glow with a warm red light. When she smiles at the camera, her head tilts shyly.

(OCTOBER: Lang, Scott; Antman)

Is Scott actually in the picture or did someone spill coffee? The photographer sees a white sheet and a black spec, and scratches his head in confusion. Antman is kinda weird.

*****

TUESDAY

(NOVEMBER: Rhodes, James; War Machine)

Rhodey shows up dressed head to toe in gunmetal colored armor. When he snaps the faceplate down, the photographer timidly asks if maybe he wants to show his face. Rhodey flips the faceplate back up, reminds the photographer how badass this armor is, and says nope. He’s all good, thanks.

(APRIL: Wilson, Sam; Falcon)

Sam has spent the last few nights practicing his Zoolander pout in the bathroom mirror. He decides to wear a tight black t-shirt and comfortable jeans, with his wings spread wide, Redwing hovering beside him. At the last minute, his sultry pout melts into an animated belly laugh and they decide to use that one instead.

(JULY: Rogers, Steven; Captain America)

Steve goes back to his roots. Wearing a too small shirt and holey old jeans, he gazes pensively at the easel in front of him, glossy blond hair combed in a perfect wave. Fingers dusty with charcoal, he points to the picture he’s drawing and insists they capture it in the photo as well. They later realize he was drawing a picture of his own ass. That month gets labeled “Steve Rogers and America’s Ass”.

*****

WEDNESDAY

(MAY: Stark, Tony; Ironman)

Tony wears the bottom half of his suit and his favorite Black Sabbath t-shirt. Posing in his lab, he floats a few feet off the ground, crossing his arms and giving that trademark smirk. Scattered around him are random bits of technology and a few arc reactors, with Dum-E and a steaming platter of cheeseburgers in the background.

(JUNE: Banner, Bruce; Incredible Hulk)

Bruce looks a bit rumpled. The publicity shy scientist in him detests these things, but he’s a good sport for a good cause. Surrounded by microscopes and beakers of dazzling green liquids, he allows the teeniest quirk of his lips. Hands tucked in his pockets, messy curls fall over his forehead, and Bruce just feels happy to be included.

(JANUARY: Romanoff, Natasha; Black Widow)

Natasha asks for her photo in black and white. Dressed in shadows and tulle, she is nothing more than a dark figure against a white backdrop. On her feet, are a pair of ballet slippers, their satin ribbons looped and laced around her ankles. When she arches slowly up on pointe, her arms curve gracefully over her head and there’s an ethereal stillness about the image. Natasha is amazing.

*****

THURSDAY

(DECEMBER: Odinson, Thor; Thor)

Thor wears an enthusiastic smile when he arrives - and not much else. Dressed in a cherry red speedo, black boots, and his swirling red cape, he stands with one fist on his hip and Mjolnir held lovingly in the other. When the photographer asks about his outfit, Thor proudly describes something called “fan art” he saw online of himself wearing this outfit, mentioning how many “re-blogs” it had. He thinks he might wear this outfit more often, if that’s what the Midgardians want.

(AUGUST: Barton, Clint; Hawkeye)

Clint has a cup of coffee in one hand, a pot of coffee in the other. He wears purple sweatpants and a grey tank top and he yawns every five seconds. When asked what pose he’d like to use, he pretends his hearing-aids are broken. He lays down for a nap and the photographer goes with that.

(MARCH: Barnes, James “Bucky”; Winter Soldier)

Bucky leaves his leather bondage gear, his excessive collection of knives and guns, and his murder scowl at home. Instead, he arrives in black jeans and boots, a dark blue t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, his tousled hair brushing the collar of his jean jacket. Perched casually on the seat of his restored Harley, he looks carefree and sweet, offering that signature smile that always sets hearts aflutter.

*****

When the final photo is taken, Bucky ambles over to where you stand with the photographer, reviewing proofs. Snuggling up beside you, he moves in for a kiss and stops in surprise.

“What’s with the lipstick?” he asks, bemused. “That’s new.”

You seem momentarily flustered by the question, stuttering something about losing your chapstick and trying new things. Bucky shrugs and dives in anyway. It makes no difference to him. Painted red or completely bare, your lips are always his favorite flavor.

*****

“They’re here!”

The box of calendars lands with a thump on the kitchen counter.

“Excellent. Are we hot?” Steve asks, his mouth full of cheesy pizza.

“I’m always hot,” Sam answers, ripping into the box. “Yesterday I saw a Buzzfeed post about how hot I am, and it said 11/10 recommend.” Yanking out the pile of calendars, he throws one to Steve. “That means more than 100% would recommend. I’m beloved.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a national treasure,” Steve argues. Reaching for a calendar, he flicks impatiently until he finds himself.

Leaving the team to laugh and bicker and poke fun of each other, you grab your bag (and another small package), heading off to search for your favorite assassin slash model.

His door is cracked when you reach it, low music in the background. Knocking lightly, you push it open.

“Hey Buck. Are you busy?”

Surrounded a chaos of metal, Bucky sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor. A tin of gun oil lays open beside him, a shredded old t-shirt in hand, while he cleans and reassembles his guns. This particular task has taken him literally all day, because Bucky Barnes has yet to meet a gun he doesn’t need.

(Seriously. He needs them. All of them. Stop questioning him, Steve.)

At your voice, an adorable smile scrunches up his face. Bouncing to his feet, he leaps gracefully from the middle of the mess and scoops you up, twirling in a circle and stealing your breath with a warm kiss.

“Hey sweetheart, what’re you doin’ here?”

“Something arrived. Thought you might like to see.”

Handing over the calendar, Bucky wipes his hands on his jeans. A nervous energy makes his fingers fumble when he riffles through the pages.

He stops abruptly at March.

“Huh,” he says, observing his portrait from every angle. Turns it sideways, upside down, pinches his lip. Squints a little. Finally, he nods. “Yeah. Okay, yeah. I look pretty great. I think? Right? I don’t know, what do you think?”

It’s funny.

Sometimes, you hold your breath when you watch at him. There are these little things. The bright excitement in his eyes maybe, or the way he scratches his jaw when he gets nervous, or the absentminded way he tucks his hair behind his ear.

It does things to your heart.

“Yeah,” you say, mesmerized by those little things, “you really do.”

Bucky looks up. Sees your face and breaks into a wide grin. He loves when you look at him like this, like he’s the only thing that matters. Like he’s your whole world. Like you love him.

It does things to his heart.

Snapping the calendar shut, he flings it on his bed. Blue eyes rake you up and down and he pokes his lip out in an exaggerated pout.

“Still think you should’ve done it too,” he says. “Bet you would’a looked so hot.”

At his comment, you reach into your bag and pull something free. Silently, you hand over a second square, this one wrapped in black paper, a silver bow taped along the edge.

“What’s this?” he asks curiously.

Shrugging, your expression stays neutral.

“Open it and see.”

Like a kid on Christmas morning, he rips the paper away.

He freezes.

Blinking rapidly, he looks up. Silver fingers delicately trace the shiny picture and he swallows hard.

“Honey, is this - did you do this for me?” he asks softly. Flipping gently through each page of this special, one-of-a-kind calendar, he shakes his head in slow disbelief.

Because there you are.

Posing in March, holding his favorite confetti cupcakes adorned with birthday candles in front of your naked breasts.

Posing in July, dressed in a vintage red, white, and blue USO uniform, white boots on your feet and crackling sparklers in your hands.

Posing again in October, wearing a slutty pumpkin dress with cut-outs revealing slivers of your sweet, sexy assets.

Each picture is incredible. Full of vivid colors and your sunny smile. No air-brushing, no fake poses, just you. Indescribable and undeniably beautiful, bursting with love.

All for him.

Bucky rubs his chest absently, feeling his heart thumping with every turn of the page. And then he reaches the last month, and there’s a strangled squeak. He stares intently at the page. Looks up at you. Back to the page. Back up at you. Closes his eyes briefly.

This is it, this is his favorite, his absolute fucking favorite thing of all time, the image instantly wiping all other thoughts from his proverbial spank bank.

There.

You.

Are.

Damn.

Tacked above you is a sprig of mistletoe, a concession to the holiday theme. But it’s the outfit that does it. Black combat boots, lacy red lingerie, deep red lipstick, and an empty thigh holster. You’re pointing one of his favorite guns at the camera and giving a sly wink.

Mind-blowingly, devastatingly, breathtakingly gorgeous.

Bucky awkwardly adjusts the rising situation in his pants, raising lust-blown eyes to yours. Licking your lips, you give him a hesitant smile.

“Do you - um, do you like them?”

It makes you panic when he says nothing. He simply stares. But then he sets the calendar carefully, reverently, aside. Slipping a hand behind your neck, he hustles you backward until you bump the door, slamming it shut. His warm mouth slants over yours, that talented tongue returning to sweep over your lips. The kiss is hot and frantic, tinged with an edge of wild excitement. When he finally breaks away, his voice is low, dark gravel in your ear.

“Listen. I’m gonna need you to get all those outfits and put on every,” he kisses your throat, “single,” he trails his lips up to your jawline, “one,” and now he’s panting in your ear, “and then I wanna take pictures of me taking everything off, before I fuck you so damn good. How’s that sound?”

Sliding a hand between his legs, your answer makes him tremble.

“Sounds like a deal.”

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #beccas1kwritingchallenge #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bitsmasterlist #bucky barnes

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prettynxsty · 4 years

Text

Scented Wood

My first ever fic, femdom!reader x sub!Chan

contains: angst, swearing, futa/girlcock, size kink, choking, smoking, toxicity, dark themes, mentions of killing, smut, y/n is straight up a serial killer, okay?

Summary: You’re a notorious serial killer, but you only kill to keep the balance. Your purpose is to rid the world of it’s garbage, but by day you’re simply a forensic crime scene specialist. You tangled yourself in a serious mess by giving into your selfish desires, indulging in hearts instead of stains on society.

AN: I tried to give a new spin on a unique writing style and write something that gives a fresh feeling.

1 2 3 4

Chan enters the station, his breath coming in shallow puffs. It felt like ice out there, it'd never snow in LA no matter how nippy it was outside. He peels the gloves from his hands and tucks them under his arm while scrubbing together his cold fingers. The station was quieter at these hours, the normal hum of noise was quieter.

He nods to a comrade at the front desk as he heads down the hallway, he was still cold, if not colder. But there was a warmth that he remembered, one that tickled him inside and out. Chan slowed to a stop beside Y/n’s office, doubting himself for a second before tapping his knuckle against the wood. He shrugs his jacket down to his shoulders, reaching up and gently scratching at the base of his neck under his uniform top.

You nearly jumped out of your skin upon hearing the knock, the wheels of your chair inching you away from your desk. Peering through the frosted windows, you see the familiar frame of Chan. You relaxed gently, but still felt a bit jumpy. You had every reason to be nowadays - after all you’ve done, it's hard to just go back and calm yourself. You’re now paranoid, spastic, loud... but that doesn't matter.

You saved and exited the document you were working on, then stood up to your full height, putting your hands in your pockets... wincing as the bruised and cut knuckles rubbed against the fabric of your pockets. This was what had to happen - for the good of LA, you just wished that you would have been smarter than to get into a fight with them first. You'll be quicker on the next kill, cleaner. Quieter. But now, you had better things to look forward to. "Come in, Chan," your voice echoed through your office, dominant, deep, assured, enough to chill the room even more.

Chan exhales, his entire frame relaxing as he pushes down the door handle and enters the room. The chill in his skin begins to fade away as his eyes run over the silhouette of the taller form. He swallows quietly, rubbing his lips together and licking them idly as he lifts his eyes to meet yours.

"Hey," he breathes, "you busy?" Lifting a hand, he removes his black cap and combs his fingers through his brown locks to fix them. He hadn't ever outright asked you for what he wanted, he could only ever remember simply taking it, or having it given to him without any word.

You could read the body language of the man as simple as you could a children's book - Chan wanted something. Something he didn't want to say out loud, obviously - his cheeks were a supple shade of red, but that could always be the temperature. You always preferred the cold, so your house is always a steady 65. But Chan was warm-blooded, you could tell that by... everything about him.

You watch his hair as it smoothed out between his fingers, and you could almost feel the silkiness on your own fingertips. Your hands twitched in response. You swallowed the lump in your throat, lifting your chin slightly, eyeing your friend. "Not usually," you lied. "I always have time for you. What do you need?"

"Just wanted to catch up," the corners of his lips twitch up in a lopsided smile. His lids flutter shut as he stretches his back, moaning quietly. His collar shifts, practically putting his pretty tanned skin on display. His neck was fresh, free of markings of any kind.

Chan tucks his gloves into his pocket, shrugging off his leather jacket and spotting the second chair beside your desk. He helped himself to the seat without asking, quietly fishing out his peppermint chapstick. For an officer of the law, he was acting awfully shy at this very moment. He quickly looks away from you as he glides the balm over his dry lips. "Uh, how have you been?"

You kept an eye on Chan's every movement, every twitch, but stayed completely still yourself. You watched the shine of his lips as he rubbed them together, you would swear you even saw the pink of his tongue slip out for a moment. You suddenly felt slightly flustered, but buried it quickly with your other thoughts.

Catch up? What did that mean? You ran through the locations of your crimes in your head, and as far as you knew, you left nothing but the little folded paper on the victim - some wife beater from Glendale, which you enjoyed killing very much so, even took one of his teeth as a trophy, which was sitting in a jar on your bedside table at home.

So Chan had to be here as... just a friend. Easing up a bit, you pushed your kind persona to the forefront, offering a smile to Chan. "Good as I can be, with all this rain we've been getting," you laughed slightly, making your way around the desk to stand by Chan. "How have you been? Working the old 9-5?" You leaned against your desk, hands still in your pockets as you looked down to Chan, catching the honey of his brown eyes in the light.

The inkling of desire swimming in his blood began to grow and spread like poison. He just couldn't get enough of you, there was just something about your presence. Your imposing height, the mystery of your character, you were more beautiful than you'd ever realize. The quirk in your charm always made his heart flutter for some reason. In a room full of people, his eyes went to you first and foremost, but why?

He rests his jacket on the back of the chair as he leans back against it, nodding actively as the other man spoke. The chill that was within him was replaced with a fire, a fire that wouldn't be quenched without his desire being fulfilled one way or another.

"Ah yeah, nothing big lately since they have me on patrol until something happens."

He couldn't help but sneak a few glances at your lips before forcing himself to hold your gaze.

"Got any breakthroughs?"

You thought carefully of what to say next; you’re far too good of a forensic scientist to have nothing by this point, so saying no would seem suspicious, but you could lead them in the wrong direction. You reached behind your desk, grabbing a pen and a notepad, scribbling down some info to give to Chan.

"The footprints at uh... the first scene were partial, but my guess would be they're a men's size 8, so you're probably looking for a guy of average height - 5'8 maybe. The killings are brutal, but I don't have to tell you that. They're probably done by someone of great strength."

Or great stealth. You almost laughed at the thought, before glancing up just in time to see Chan’s eyes on your lips. Oh. So that's what he wants. You cocked your head up again, what a pleasant surprise. Maybe you two could have a little fun together.

"See something you like, officer?"

Chan hummed, nodding as he shifted in his chair to sit up straight, scanning the notes given to him. His lips tingle slightly with the sweet cooling notes of peppermint and menthol in his chapstick, he softly smacks his lips together as he thought for a moment.

Was this a good idea? Chan felt like he was more than likely pushing his luck. Your teasing remark pulls him from the disappointing thoughts, bringing him back to reality. You were probably just joking with him, better not push it.

"Maybe I do," he laughs as he stands up from the chair and stretches.

"I won't keep you too long, Y/l/n. You probably put off some work to talk to me." Chan got ready to turn back and grab his coat, playfully nudging his friend's shoulder.

Your smirk turns into a full blown cocky smile now. There was something nice about the way Chan referred to you, like you were his superior. It warmed you from your thighs to your stomach, and made your heartbeat pick up ever so slightly. Noticing Chan about to leave, you quickly grabbed his arm before it reached his coat.

"Why leave so soon? You just got here," you breathed softly, though your grip was no doubt tight; your thumb grazed right underneath the sleeve of his shirt, right along the little blue vein of his wrist. You licked your lips, stepping closer to him.

"Stay a little longer. We can... go over the case." You didn't want to seem too forward.

Your voice sent chills down his spine, his face grew hotter. He couldn't believe what was happening right now, you wanted him like that? He swallows dryly as his arm was grabbed, it wasn't really harsh per se, but it completely took his breath away. Chan’s mouth fell slightly ajar as he allowed himself to be pulled back into the space of the taller.

The normal beating of his heart gains a nervous and excited flutter as he stands before the other, gazing up into your eyes. They smolder with something deep, hot, something that could burn him, but the warmth was good. "Uh, yeah." He babbles blankly, nervously nibbling at his lower lip.

You watched his lips carefully, watching them quiver ever so slightly. You knew Chan was thinking exactly what you were. You met his eyes, leaning down closer to him, looking for any sign of distress or disagreement. When you found nothing, you moved in quicker, catching his lips quickly. Your own lips tingle at the contact, the taste of peppermint flooding your senses as your other hand shoots to Chan's collar, pulling him in even closer by the neck.

Chan felt his lids fall shut automatically as you leaned in to kiss him, he waited eagerly to receive it. Suddenly he felt a hand on his collar tugging him forward and he moans in shock. This was exactly what he wanted, what he needed. Some roughing up, and he was more than ready to get it. He leans into your touch, grabbing your shoulders as he moves his lips against your own. It felt so good to just let someone else take the lead and take what they wanted, giving him what he craved.

You were a bit taken aback by the moan, but quickly picked up on what to do. You took Chan’s bottom lip between your teeth, biting just hard enough to see how he'd react, but not enough to draw blood. You adored this; having someone squirming under you. Usually it was some high-priced hooker, or someone dumb enough to fuck you in the bathroom, but lately you haven't had much luck - so you were more than desperate, and Chan was the perfect target.

As your pants grew tighter, you kicked Chan’s chair aside to make more space. It bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor. Breathing heavily, you switched position to pin Chan to your desk. You completely lost any inhibition that told you this was probably a bad idea, and instead completely lost yourself in the slim, muscled man underneath you.

Chan jumped as your teeth scraped across his lower lip before sinking in. He took a sharp breath in, exhaling with a deep sigh. The flame inside of you was licking his skin, heating him up in the best of ways. His head spun as blood rushed to his nethers, aching to be filled and used.

Chan barely heard the noise of the chair until it fell onto the floor, opening the space around you. His dick jumps when you pin him back against the pine desk. He was drunk from the smell of earthy cologne and the rough touch, his mind was empty save for one woman, you.

You smiled into the kiss before parting your lips, "You like it rough, huh, detective?" You chuckled, keeping one hand tight on his collar. You move your other hand to lift his chin, dragging your fingertips down the column of his throat before digging your thumb into the base of his neck. Just enough to apply pressure.

You wanted to be rougher - wanted to make the man whimper and beg - but you still needed to toe the line, if you crossed a boundary, you could get fired. You pressed your hips into his, looking down on Chan’s supple lips, his half-lidded eyes, taking in the fact that you could do anything you wanted to him in that moment.

"Tell me what you want, then."

Chan felt his cheeks prickle with heat of shame, to admit something like this out loud, he could never. He opens his eyes, his pupils blown wide with pleasure as you lift his chin. He couldn't contain the shaking moan that came from his lips as his throat was squeezed. Feeling you press completely up against him felt good, felt so right to him. His lips were only slightly swollen from their lip lock, a renewed tingling from where he was bitten. Chan almost couldn't process the demand he was given, babbling the first words that came to mind.

"Fuck me," he breathes quietly, leaning further into your touch.

You smirked once more, leaning in to kiss the last bit of peppermint off his wet lips, before pushing him roughly against the desk. You took a step back, goosebumps raising on your skin from the cold air. "Take off your clothes," you commanded, before looking down and beginning to work on your belt.

You were going to fuck him until you couldn't fuck him anymore, maybe if he was good you'd even let him cum too. When you finally got off your belt, you kept it in your hand, walking to the office door and locking it. Couldn't take any risks, you thought, as you set the belt down on the desk, keeping it close as you quickly unbuttoned your shirt.

Chan obeys immediately, reaching up and making quick work of the buttons on his top. He keeps his eyes on you, not peeling them away for a second as he undresses. He allows the garment to slide from his shoulders seductively, taunting the domineering woman with light, playful eyes. After pushing aside the top of his uniform, he moves down to his well fitted black slacks. Chan unbuttons them with ease, shimmying them off to reveal his snugly fit boxer briefs. Afterward he kicks his pants to the side, dumping them beside his discarded shirt, awaiting his next commands.

You glanced backwards to the frosted glass with a worrisome look, but there was still no one there. You unbutton your black dress pants, pushing them and your underwear off in one solid motion. Your cock sprung free easily, a solid, cut, girthy 7 inches, hard as a rock and shiny at the head from your own excitement. You really hadn't been laid in a while, so you were more than eager to get this show on the road.

You looked to Chan, who stood with a playful look on his face. Oh, so he's a brat, you thought. I can play with that. You took a few steps forward and brought Chan into a kiss, deep and hungry, sliding your middle and pointer fingers in the elastic band of his boxer briefs. You pulled away after a moment, catching your breath once again as you pulled back the elastic and snapped it against his skin.

"Everything."

Chan idly licks his lips, tracing every dip and curve of your body with his eyes. For so long he admired you from afar, not daring to make a move. Now he wondered why the hell he hadn't tried anything like this before. His lips twitch into a sly little smile as he watches the other man make quick work of his clothes, hurrying back to him. He receives the kiss easily, leaning in to the larger form as if it were second nature to him.

His breath hitches as the warm fingers hook under his black undergarments, pulling them back and snapping them against his unmarked skin. Chan hooks his thumbs under his boxer briefs, holding your heated gaze as he slides them down and over his thighs. His cock sprang from the confines of the cotton, standing at attention as he kicked his underwear aside.

You were getting impatient now, especially with the sight of Chan’s cock eagerly awaiting you; if you wanted to, you could get on your knees and suck him until he couldn't stand on his own. If you wanted to, you could fuck his throat until he couldn't speak. But you weren't being paid hourly, and you had stuff to do tonight - particularly search for a new victim.

This wasn't a date, Chan came here for a fucking, and that's what he's going to get. That's all he's going to get. You wrapped your arms around Chan’s waist gently, staring down at the firm rise and fall of his abs, the dip of his hips and his cock, licking your lips hungrily. "You wanna get fucked, huh?" You mumbled.

"Turn around. Bend over."

Chan almost wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, things were getting right to the point. Things were moving without stopping, just the way he liked it. There was too much to be done later to spend too much time fooling around, as much as he would enjoy it. A quick round would help clear his head and put him in the right place to start piecing up this case.

The look in your eyes made his dick jump, sending a shiver through his compact frame. He bit his lip, turning away from you and bending over the desk. Suddenly he felt much too shy to look you in the eyes, being exposed like this. He hated and loved it all the same.

You placed your hand on the small of Chan’s back almost instinctively, running your hand over the tan, smooth flesh.

"Good little slut," you whispered as you exhaled, not even realizing you were saying it. You brought your right hand up to your lips, spitting on your long fingers. You slowly brought it down to level with Chan, moving the hand on his lower back down to spread his firm cheeks lightly, soaking up the sight of him.

"God, you're hot." Your fingers shook slightly as you pressed a lubricated finger to his hole, prodding just enough for sensation but not enough to penetrate, your love for teasing getting the best of you for a moment.

Chan arches his back, allowing his head to loll forward gently. Your warm hands coming in contact with his cooler skin, one resting in the dip of his spine. He chews on his lip anxiously, swaying his hips in anticipation as he hears you spitting on your fingers. He felt a hand part his cheeks before a wet finger rolled against his rose colored hole. Chan let out a quiet sigh, trying to stifle the noise daring to exit his lips. He couldn't be any more ready for this, but he could not get caught, and neither could you.

You decided that you shouldn't waste anymore time. You pressed your finger in slowly until your knuckles got in the way, watching the man's back rise and fall as his breath got quicker and quicker. You twist your finger as you pulled it out, adding a second one easily - a sign he's probably done this before, with some guy at the station, you assume.

You picked up the pace gradually, scissoring your fingers to loosen him up, searching for that spot that would really make him moan. Just thinking of those sounds made your cock twitch, prompting you to reach your free hand down to slowly pump it in response.

Chan felt his body jerk, a moan slipping from his kiss swollen lips. "Shit," he curses quietly as his hole is breached. He felt the long finger twist before slowly retracting before he was being stretched out with two fingers.

This was good, but Chan really wanted the main course, now. He couldn't finish the thought, his eyes rolling back with white hot pleasure. You hit the nail right on the head, curling against his prostate mercilessly. "Fuck me, Y/n," he whines, burying his face in his hands. He felt shame for saying it so loudly, anyone could've heard him.

You felt pretty proud of yourself. You’ve always prided yourself on your power over people, specifically in relationships. You could get anything you wanted easily, it just took the right plan; people were just pawns to you, technicalities. Not that you were completely cold-hearted, you’ve been known to indulge a few of your emotions from time to time- but you’ve never felt better than when you’re on top.

Which is why you kill, apart from wanting to better the city that you hope to one day raise children in - power. Around the workplace, no one knows this, though; they push you around as just the forensics girl, like you’re the technicality. You’re so much more than that. You feel your blood boil at the thought of it, as you pull your fingers out. It felt wonderful to see the tough cop begging to be fucked.

Eventually, you tire of playing around and gently remove your fingers from his entrance. Wordlessly, you reach over your desk and clumsily pull open the top drawer. Rifling around for a few bare seconds, your fingers brush over the crinkling packet of lubricant. Awkwardly pinching it between the tip of your ring finger and index nail, you lift it out of the drawer and maneuver it into your palm. Tearing the corner carelessly, you cradle your length in your hand and dribble it from base to tip. You busy your hand with spreading it along, pouring the remainder along the cleft of his ass.

A delighted hum rumbles in your chest when he jumps at the cool liquid sliding over his skin. You toss the now useless packet into the trash can beside your desk. You collect some of the lube on your fingers, taking care to spread it around before pushing back in. Once you’re satisfied with your own meticulous preparation, you lean back into the embrace of carnal desire. Pressing the head of your cock against his glistening hole sends a chill up your spine. Planting your feet, you begin to press inside of him.

It felt good to loosen up like this, no strings attached, nothing really at stake. Things would probably fall right back into their neutral friendship as if nothing happened. Afterward he'd head to his desk and take the information that you wrote down for him and try to make some connections.

There had to be a way that these murders were connected, it didn't make sense. His invasive, calculating thoughts were silenced immediately as he felt you begin stretching him out. You were much bigger than your fingers, for damn sure. Chan felt a sting, but it excited him.

You felt disappointed almost that Chan was trying to stay quiet, you always loved to hear the sounds of someone below you, but all you were getting now was a choked back whimper or the occasional soft, quiet groan. Clenching your teeth, you ground into Chan without warning, the warmth around your cock coaxing out a soft moan of your own.

You definitely needed to get laid more, if Chan keeps this shit up, and you'll be coming within minutes. You took a moment to let Chan adjust before moving into a punishing pace, reeling his hand back to smack his ass.

Chan thought he was managing well with keeping himself quiet enough, but you seemed to have a different idea. The powerful thrusts were enough to rock his whole frame and he couldn't bite his lip any harder.

"Oh!" He cried out, trying to clamp his lips shut while catching his glasses before they shot off of his face. Each moan was long and drawn out, despite his struggle to be just a little bit quieter. He bit his tongue so hard that it bled a bit, crying out in shock as the large hand claps over his ass cheek. "God- damn!" He pants, squeezing his eyes shut.

You smirked, feeling the heat pooling in your stomach already. You felt proud, finally getting Chan to show the world just how much of a slut he was. The man was practically a mess of syllables and moans, not making any sense at all, if not for the occasional curse. The desk creaked threateningly as you pounded in again, and you couldn't tell if you should be worried about the receptionist walking in or the wood splitting in half.

The 54-year-old, almost retired woman would cross herself, then immediately collapse if she heard them, undoubtedly filing a complaint to HR which would subsequently cause you to lose the one job keeping you from being arrested. Unfortunately you weren't in the best state of mind to be worried about these things, or even consider them. You leaned forward until your stomach met Chan’s back, wrapping your arm around his throat in semblance to a choke hold. You were gonna make Chan come harder than anyone had before, you were determined.

Chan whines every time you strike that special bundle of nerves, the sound keening. The sensation was beginning to get overwhelming, he was reaching his limit. "Y/n-, ah!" He moans, cutting himself off and allowing his head to hang down limply, pushing his glasses back up his nose. The smaller man could feel you leaning forward, your breasts pressing against his back.

Much to his surprise, an arm wraps around his throat and yanks him backward. His dick dripping precum, pulsing and twitching fitfully. Chan felt the heat climbing his cheeks, the lack of air pushing him to focus solely on the feeling. Soon after, it was all too much. He whimpers pitifully as he cums, shivering with each shot.

You groaned through clenched teeth as you felt Chan fluttering around you, that alone was enough to send you over the edge. You keened, loosening your grip on him immediately. He rattles with a few sharp coughs, gasping to catch his breath. "Fuck," you managed to groan, pulling out of him and frotting your length in between his cheeks.

You came, and you came hard. Thick, syrupy ropes splatter over the small of Chan’s back as you rest your head on his shoulder, planting sloppy kisses along his neck and behind his ear. You hadn't cum like that in awhile, your legs even shook slightly as you caught your breath and tried to wind yourself down. After a moment, you chuckled slightly to yourself. "Where have you been all my life, Bang Chan?"

Chan pants heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face. He allowed himself to lay limply over the edge of the desk as he recovered from the earth shattering orgasm. The wet kisses cause a shudder to run through him, sending a felt more bolts of pleasure through his sensitive body. Never in a million years would he have expected you, his friend, the bookish forensic scientist to fuck him like this. "Honestly, I don't know," he breathes, slowly regaining his strength.

You smiled slightly upon seeing the disheveled man, stepping back. Without missing a beat, you grabbed a tissue out of the box sitting on your desk and swept away the mess you created. You’d need to tackle the cum on the front of your desk next, that was a conversation that you weren’t willing to have with the custodian.

You turned your attention away from him, swiftly moving to clean up the evidence of your recent escapade. It was a quick fuck and there were no feelings to be shared, you assumed that Chan felt the same. You dressed yourself as quickly as you undressed yourself, making your way back over to the desk, rifling around for your pack of marlboros in the top drawer. Dumping yourself in the seat, you turned on the small fan on your desk to try and mask the scent of smoke as you lit one up.

"Don't tell anyone about this. DK would have my ass," you mumbled with the cigarette between your lips, inhaling the smoke deeply, and puffing it out in rings. You thought of what Dokyeom, your real boss, would think if he found out not only had you fucked a cop in your office, but offered him a cigarette afterwards.

Chan peels himself up from the desk, stretching out his back with a few cracks and pops. He pushes his glasses into place, and combs his finger through his hair to put himself back together. Decidedly, he would get dressed and head straight to the bathroom to completely clean himself up before he went back to work on the case for a bit. "There's nothing to tell." He agreed, bending over and grabbing his boxer briefs.

Chan made quick work of pulling them up and over his thighs and jumping into the rest of his clothes. Upon straightening his collar, he grabs his cap and jacket. He glances back, nodding at you before seeing himself out quietly. No words were needed, what's done is done. However, he should have definitely wiped the lube out of his ass cheeks before he left, sheesh.

You knew what to expect, so hearing the door shut wasn't that bad of a blow. You take this time to sit at your desk, skimming through anything that could possibly look bad on your part. You weren't stupid enough to keep any evidence incriminating you on your work computer, but you still had stuff to double-check in case Chan wanted on.

You updated the files with some basic information, making sure to get the rough description of the unusual suspect, or unsub, as far away from yourself as possible. You had to feel a little proud; you were only two murders down, but you had big plans, a list, even, of people to target next. You cleaned your email too, deleting all emails from your therapist, making sure to make yourself look as bland as possible.

Chan spent a few minutes in the bathroom, freshening himself up in front of the mirror. He stops, inspecting himself idly as he allows his thoughts to roam. Why did she give me so many details earlier? I didn't really mean anything serious by asking her that... Whatever. Quietly fishing around in his pocket, he pulls out his chapstick and glides it over his lips. He smacks his lips together with a soft pop, putting away the small lip balm as he pushes open the door and exits. Chan strolls down the hallway, entering the office and finding his desk. You weren't far from his mind, just sort of looming for some reason. He stares blankly at the dark computer screen, glancing up as someone walks by. Jinyoung, the chief of his department. Should he question Jinyoung about his sudden suspicion?

#sub!idol #dom!reader #domme!reader #skz smut #stray kids smut #sub!skz #sub!chan #sub!stray kids #sub!bang chan

140 notes · View notes

turning-dreams-into-chaos · 4 years

Text

Banished (Part 52)

~Banished~

Word Count: 8.5K

~Master~

*Based off episode 4x07 of the 100, Gimme Shelter*

*Bold/Italics are Trig!*

Previously...

“Took every last drop of fuel, but I did it. I can put her down on the water just offshore.” Murphy and Luna approached her slowly with frowns. “We can survive.” When their expressions didn’t change, Raven’s stomach dropped. “What’s wrong?”

“Clarke just radioed. They lost a barrel.”

“What?” Raven gasped out.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered but Raven couldn’t hear him. She started sucking in for a breath, her head paining her as she clutched it. “Raven?”

Raven’s seizure caused her to collapse on the ground. Murphy took off running, calling for Abby as loud and as fast as he could. Luna fell to the ground as well, trying her best to protect Raven’s head before seeing her mouth starting to foam. “Raven, it’s going to be okay. It’s okay, Raven.”

10 barrels.

Make that 9 now.

---

Octavia had no plan after she left Arkadia, roaming the woods on Helios’ back as she found herself mentally lost. She needed to escape, but now that she did, she didn’t know where to go. Thunder ripped through the sky near her but she wasn’t focused on the sound with the feeling of being watched creeping up her spine as she looked over her shoulder.

Ilian, having followed since he left as well, was jumping between the trees to hide himself yet he didn’t do as good a job as he thought. Octavia sighed as she stopped her horse and climbed off, ducking behind a tree before Ilian could see her. He approached the recently rider-less Helios slowly, holding his stomach in pain. Once he was close enough, Octavia made her move, standing behind him and holding a knife to his throat.

“Why are you following me?” She asked, not pulling the knife away.

Ilian took a calming breath, hoping to appease to her. “You won’t survive out here alone.” He turned to finally look at her, seeing the deadly glare she wore. “Let me help you.”

Octavia tore the knife away in anger. “You’ve helped enough.” She climbed back onto Helios, wanting to leave Ilian but he won’t let her.

“You’ve spared my life. I owe you.”

Octavia locked her jaw, his offer worthless in her eyes. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Thunder cracked through the sky again, this time lightning accompanying as Ilian and Octavia looked up, watching the storm that clouded over the skies. Once the rain started falling, they knew it would only get worse. It burned as it hit their skin and the burns started spreading. “Strange Rain.”

“Get on.” Octavia mumbled as she pulled her hood onto her head, hiding herself from the rain’s access. When Ilian didn’t listen, she yelled. “Now!” Helping him up to ride with her, Octavia winced and took off the moment Ilian was on and ready, riding them both to safety.

---

Bellamy drove the rover back to Arkadia, the silence killing him as he looked over to the passenger seat, wishing more than anything you had came back with him. The sky above was dark, thunder echoed in his ears as he pulled the rover to a stop. Kane was waiting for him as Bellamy exited, meeting him the middle of the camp.

“Welcome back.” Kane spoke but was interrupted by a nasty boom of thunder, everyone looking up in the sky. With the fear of the black rain upon them, they were all prepared when the first few drops fell onto them.

“Black rain.” Kane and Bellamy exchanged wide eyes before yelling, telling everyone to sound the alarm and get inside right away. It was a madhouse, people abandoning their spots everywhere to rush inside, not caring if they were pushing and trampling others. As Bellamy tried to get inside himself, there was only one person on his mind. “Kane! Where’s Octavia?” Kane couldn’t answer him for he was too busy trying to get people to safety.

The rain was pouring harder every second, burning the exposed skin of everyone. Unfortunately for Harper, her skin became more exposed as a man tripped, grabbing her shirt and pulling her shoulder free. “Let go of me!” She screamed and pushed the guy away. He landed on the ground, feet tramping over his back as he cried out in pain. Harper tried turning back for him, but with the fear of the black rain, she left him.

As people entered into the ark, clothes were stripped and black rain was washed off. Bellamy almost got his shirt off before hearing the screaming of the man still outside. He stopped changing. “Kane. Someone’s outside.” The older man’s head shot around, grabbing his coat as Bellamy and him raced against the rain, grabbing the fallen Arkadian and bringing him back to the ship. Once the man was inside, Bellamy and Kane doused themselves in water again, but Bellamy still wasn’t done. “I need to find Octavia.”

Kane looked at him, shaking his head slightly. “She’s not here. She took off hours ago.”

Bellamy’s heart stopped. His sister was out there? “I have to find her.”

He started towards the door to leave but Kane stopped him, keeping him from chasing after his long gone sister. “Bellamy, we don’t know where she went. You just got back and the rover doesn’t have enough power to go searching through the woods.”

Bellamy didn’t want to hear him out. “The rain will kill her!”

Kane spoke over Bellamy’s words. “She’s smart! She’ll find shelter, okay!” Bellamy tried to keep himself calm, giving Kane a slight nod as he took another look outside before closing the door. Kane moved to the rest of the crowd, speaking to them as she started to strip his own clothing off. “Remember the drill! All wet clothing in the designated zone!” People began asking him questions, wanting to know if everyone made inside. Kane needed them to stay focused. “Check in with your section leaders. We’ll get a head count when we can.” Water was being splashed everywhere, everyone trying to clean themselves.

Through the noise, the radio on Kane’s side rang through, a man’s urgent voice on the other side. “Hello? Can anyone hear me? We’re caught in the rain and it burns!” Everyone in the Ark listened to the wincing of the man in pain. “We’re trapped in the rubble just north of the factory crash. Please! Can anyone hear me?”

Kane took the radio, taking a breath as Bellamy stood next to him. “This is Chancellor Kane, I hear you.”

“Kane! Kane, it’s Mark Colton. My son, he’s soaked with black rain. Please, you gotta help us! Hurry!”

---

Octavia and Ilian were fighting against the rain, trying to get to safety as fast as they could. The rain continuously burned them as they rode into a cave, sliding off the horse and quickly taking their top layers of clothes off. “There’s fresh water.” Octavia panted as her clothes came off, Ilian’s as well before they scrubbed themselves clean in the water.

Their burning finally subsided as Ilian picked his head up, looking to Octavia for information. “The black rain. What does it mean?”

She groaned. “It means we’re stuck here. Doesn’t mean we need to talk.” She splashed herself one last time before standing up. “I need to wash off my horse.” She grabbed Helios’ saddle blanket and dunked it into the water. She noticed Ilian was watching as she glared at him. “Why don’t you make a fire? You’re good at that.” She growled before walking away, leaving Ilian to stew in her words.

---

After Clarke, Roan and your arrival on Becca’s island, Clarke went to her mom right away, having Jackson show her to the lab. She was astonished as she walked in, looking out amongst the lab Becca had constructed. When Abby heard her daughters voice, her features softening in relief as she smiled. Clarke made her way down the stairs, meeting her mom at the bottom.

“God, it’s really you.” Abby breathed out, cupping her daughters face. The image of Clarke covered in radiation had haunted Abby, but seeing Clarke here and safe made up for it. Jackson left the Griffin women alone. “Where’s Y/N and Roan?”

Clarke nodded, grabbing her mom’s wrists to lower them. “They’re unloading the fuel with the others. I just needed to see my mom.” Abby knew her daughter well enough to know the look on her face meant she was blaming herself for the fuel loss.

Abby offered a consoling hug. “Don’t punish yourself.” She whispered in her ear. “Going to space was a long shot.”

Clarke and Abby pulled away, a frown still evident on Clarke’s face. “It was our only shot.” The screen over Abby’s shoulder showed a brain scan, Abby confirming Clarke’s assumption that it was Raven’s. Telling Clarke about Raven’s seizure and stroke, Clarke become worried for her friend, although her mother assured her Raven would recover. Clarke was also worried about her mother, bringing up what Jackson had told her earlier about Abby’s condition. Again Abby, assured her everything was alright with her. Clarke hesitated for a moment after their conversation. Raven and her mom were both having problems- or her mom might soon have problems- but she couldn’t help but be a little worried about you in this moment. “Mom, is it possible the City of Light could leave… side effects for someone?” Clarke asked, feeling the timing right to know. Abby’s brows furrowed, uncertain what her daughter was asking. Clarke tried again. “I don’t mean like with Raven, I meant something more… mentally.”

Abby stopped for a second, thinking over what little they knew. “It’s possible.” She told her, knowing that they truly had no clue what the Flame did. “Why do you ask?”

Clarke knew that she promised you she wouldn’t tell anyone, but her mom was a doctor and this was your brain. “Y/N might’ve said something. I was hoping you’d know what to do?”

Abby let out a breath, putting her hands on her hips. “I could give her a brain scan? Make sure-“

“Make sure it wasn’t a stroke like Raven?” Clarke filled in and Abby nodded, again seeing how worried Clarke was. The conversation ended as Abby walked over to the microscope, Clarke follow and growing confused as Abby looked inside. “What is that?”

“It’s Luna’s bone marrow. A theory of Jackson’s and I’s that should remain untested.” The thought of using bone marrow was too similar to Mount Weather, an unsettling feeling remaining in Clarke’s stomach.

“What theory?”

Abby sighed and spun out of her chair. “We can’t create Nightblood unless we go to space. But Luna can.” She moved to the other side of the table, continuing her lab work. “Theoretically, we can inject ourselves with her bone marrow.”

“Then we become Nightbloods.” Clarke filled in the blank once again as Abby nodded. “Will it work?” Abby did believe that bone marrow could be the solution and Clarke didn’t get the problem. “So why’d you take it off the table?”

Her face falling, Abby took a deep breath. “The only way we’ll know if it works is to test it, and if we test it…” Her sentence trailed off, thinking about outcome of the only known solution.

“We’d be exposing someone to radiation.” Clarke understood the problem, but this could save everyone. “Can we do that here?”

Clarke’s question caught Abby off guard. Surely her daughter didn’t really want this. She nodded. “Becca was trying to find a cure for cancer using this radiation chamber.” She told Clarke as the girl looked over her shoulder, seeing the ready to use death trap. “Clarke, we would have to expose a human to enough radiation that it would implode every single cell in their body.” Abby’s words were slow, trying to get her point to hit. “That’s what’s coming for us.”

“I know.” Clarke stopped her. “But you said it, we have no choice.” There was one thing Clarke was missing here, something she hadn’t caught until Abby told her they had a choice to make. Her face fell, realizing what it meant. “Who do we test?”

“Hey Emori.” At the sound of Jackson’s voice entering the room, Clarke and Abby looked up to find him speaking to Emori who had already been in the room, overhearing everything Abby and Clarke just discussed.

Emori tried to play it off, she didn’t hear anything. “I’m heading up to the house. Does anyone want anything while I’m up there?”

“No, we’re fine. Thanks, Emori.” Abby turned down her offer. Emori wanted to get out as soon as she could, wanting to head back to Murphy and tell him her new learnings. Emori was worried. Out of everyone here, she knew she was the outsider and if Clarke and Abby needed someone to sacrifice someone, it would be her.

---

Louis, the man Kane and Bellamy had rescued wasn’t doing so good. He had burns over his chest and arms, his breathing interrupted constantly by coughs and sputters as Harper tended to him. The guilt was eating away at her. The hangar bay had been converted to the med bay overflow, many people in almost the same condition as Louis laying inside. Kane had entered, taking a look around as Harper approached him. “I need to get him to med bay.” She stressed, wringing the towel in her hand with worry.

Kane was apologetic as he denied her. “Med bay’s full.” He mumbled, looking to the tortured man. “Even with treatment, he wouldn’t survive this.” Harper wanted to protest but she couldn’t. “I know it’s difficult, but we have to prioritize.”

“I’m the reason he’s not going to survive this.” Harper admitted, glancing towards Louis on the bed. “He reached for me and I didn’t help him.”

Kane knew Harper was blaming herself but there wasn’t anything he or the girl could do. “Help him now. Make him as comfortable as possible.” Harper let out a scoff, tears willing their way free but she didn’t let them, instead nodding and letting Kane leave.

Bellamy was in the Hangar as well, donning a protective suit- more duct tape than suit- as Kane approached him. “Everyone else accounted for?”

Kane nodded, watching Bellamy get ready with curiosity. “Jaha and Monty reported back for sector 5. All 200 of their people are safe. All other sectors are still counting. We’re down two.” Kane mumbled, thinking about Mark and his son still trapped in the rain.

“Not for long.” Bellamy assured him as he taped a part of his arm.

“Bellamy, the fire damage to that suit could cause tears you can’t even see, much less seal.” Kane was worried for Bellamy’s safety. Of course, he wanted his people safe, but was it worth risking Bellamy’s life for it? Kane stopped Bellamy from taping more. “That’s Mark Colton out there. I know him, he’s resourceful. Right now, he’s under an overhang out of the rain.”

“His son Peter was one of the 100.” Bellamy wasn’t going to let Kane stop him. “I’m doing this.” He moved to walk pass the man but Kane grabbed his arm, keeping him from leaving. Bellamy looked him dead in the eyes. “Y/N would go.” He whispered. Kane’s grip faltered until he finally let go of Bellamy, knowing Bellamy was right.

The rain was pouring harder than ever as Bellamy walked out, his only protection being the suit. It was working, keeping the black rain from him, but only for a minute. He starting groaning in pain, picking up his pace until he was sprinting, slipping every so often in the rain. Kane watched from the door, yelling at him to turn around but Bellamy refused. He ended in the rover, stripping the suit off and washing off the black rain stuck on his arms. He was in pain, trying to rub the pain off as Kane spoke through the radio.

“You were right.” Bellamy groaned as he continued to strip off the top layers of his clothes. “The suit is worthless.”

“You gotta come back in. Bring the rover to the airlock.”

Kane’s orders were cut off as Mark spoke through again. “Bellamy, its Mark. Are you there?” Bellamy knew leaving them wasn’t going to be an option. He replied back to Mark. “Are you on the move? Peter doesn’t look so good!” Mark was coughing and Bellamy and Kane could hear the rain in the behind the stranded two.

“He’s been through worse. We’ll get through this, I’m on my way.” Mark thanked Bellamy before Kane told Bellamy to go to a private channel. Bellamy slid into the driver’s seat, not wanting to waste another second. “No more lectures, Kane. I can’t find my sister, but I do know where they are.”

Kane watched as Bellamy started to drive the rover out of the camp. “Just listen! No unnecessary risks. You come home safe.”

Bellamy nodded, his shaky breathing not helping his confidence. “I got this.” He told Kane but he knew he was telling it more to himself. He could do this. He could save Mark and Peter.

---

After helping with unloading the fuel, you headed back to the house. It wasn’t like anything you’ve ever seen before. The white walls seemed to turn the corner forever and it was clean, cleaner than anything you were used to. It was obvious you didn’t belong here, like you would leave a stain if you touched anything. You didn’t let it stop you, dragging your fingers slowly across the walls as you followed the sound of music. It led you to a seating area, a dining room and kitchen attached, but that wasn’t what caused you to stopped walking.

In the kitchen was John Murphy, dancing to the music. He hadn’t seen you enter, his back turned to you as you smirked and began clapping. “Nice moves Murphy.” He practically jumped out of his skin as he spun to see you leaning against the wall. He rolled his eyes and took a playful bow, moving back to his cooking. You looked around the kitchen a little, opening a few cupboards before jumping up to sit on the counter to watch him.

He scooped up a bite on his spoon before walking over to you. “Here, have some.”

You looked at it skeptically before smiling. “You didn’t poison it did you?” Murphy let out a sarcastic laugh as you happily took the bite. It was delicious, so much better than the shit you’ve been eating back at Arkadia. “Damn. Who knew the cockroach can cook.” You joked and Murphy roll his eyes despite the proud smile on his face. He moved around you, coming in front of the cookbook next to you and you playfully gasped. “You can read too? How did I not know this?”

“I know what you’re thinking. Why are all the good ones taken?” He joked and it was your turn to laugh.

“Yeah, that’s so what I’m thinking Murphy. You’re a mind reader, too?” you playfully kicked his leg. The back door opened and you turned around, seeing a girl you vaguely remember from after the City of Light entering. She gave you a once over before coming to Murphy and wrapping her arms around him. The sight honestly made you miss Bellamy, regretting not going back with him. Emori looked at Murphy, obviously wanting to have a conversation you knew you probably shouldn’t be a part of. “Okay, well, I’ve had a long day and the kidnapping was the cherry on top, I’m gonna get cleaned up.” You jumped off the counter, offering Emori a smile before beginning your hunt through the house.

Murphy nodded, wiping his hands on his pants and starting to follow you. “Let me show you where to go.” He offered.

“Upstairs. Down the hall.” Emori blurted out as she grabbed Murphy’s arm, keeping him from leaving. You looked down to his arm before awkwardly thanking Emori and leaving. Murphy raised his brow at Emori as soon as you were gone. “We’re getting out of here.” She left his embrace as Murphy groaned, not understanding his girlfriend’s problems. “I’ll explain on the way to the bunker.” She started filling her pack with everything they would need.

“I already told you the bunker’s not an answer. What’s going on? Did you see something out there? Are the scavengers back?”

Emori wasn’t done with her packing. “Even scavengers wouldn’t do to me what your people will.” She mumbled.

Murphy just grew more confused. When Emori moved passed him to continue, Murphy stopped her, needing her to explain now. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“They’re going to sacrifice someone to test Nightblood.” Emori finally told him and Murphy’s face fell. “Who do you think that’s going to be, huh? Clarke? Raven? Y/N? I’m the outsider John, the Freikdrana.” Her words were rushed out as she began to hyperventilate and collapse. Murphy pulled her back up to her feet, comforting her and told her to tell him everything.

You finally found what you assumed to be your room based on Emori’s minimal instructions. When you turned the light on, you were shocked. It was much larger than your bed back at Polis and the future inside looked brand new, the bed made beautifully and the couches framing the fire place added a warmth to the room. You took your jacket off, tossing it onto the couch with the rest of your things as you continued to look around.

The shower was even more than you expected and it took you a second before you figured out how it work, hearing the cascade of hot water before you stripped your clothes off. The hot water on your muscles was more than you could ask for as you stood still and let the water fall down your back. To say you wanted to stay in here forever was correct.

Unfortunately, you did have to get out and put on your clothes again. You considered heading back downstairs, seeing if Clarke was back from the lab yet but by how much she said she was looking forwards to being with her mom again, you doubted she left. Emori and John were probably doing whatever it was they were doing together and so deciding on no other options, you stood in front of the bed. The mattress was soft as you pushed your hand into you, temping you to lay down and you couldn’t wait much longer. Letting out a sigh of satisfaction, you pulled the blankets over you, only increasing your comfort. You closed your eyes, trying to enjoy the luxury as much as you could. As cozy as the bed was, nothing beat the feeling of falling asleep in Bellamy’s arms, but he wasn’t here.

“Comfier than the beds at Polis?” your eyes opened slowly and you licked your lip in annoyance pushing yourself up to look at Lexa sitting on the couch.

“Oh cool. You’re here too.” You joked, hearing her chuckle. You laid back onto the bed. “Do you ever take a break?”

“And where would I go?”

You cocked your head, realizing she had a point. “I forgot you were in my head.” You admitted, rubbing your face. The spot on the bed next to you was empty and you wished Bellamy was here again to get you to sleep like he always did. You were about to ask Lexa why she was here this time but a crash coming from somewhere in the house stopped you. “What was that?” Lexa didn’t respond. You pushed yourself up again, feeling your nerves start through. “Lexa?” When you came to the answer that the crash wasn’t from Lexa or in your head, you stopped waiting, grabbing your knife from your bag and heading downstairs slowly.

There was clattering happening as you kept walking, trying to find the source before coming to an office. “Murphy?” you called out into the dark room. “Murphy, if it’s you, tell me before I stab you.” you mumbled, trying to keep your breathing level as your grip on your knife tightened. You turned the light on when he didn’t answer and when you did, you figured the sound to be coming from an open window and the blinds moving from the wind. You sighed, letting your guard down and moving closer to close it. “What kind of person leaves a window open during a storm?” you mumbled to yourself but your words died out as you approached the window, tilting your head when you saw the huge hole in the window. The window wasn’t open, someone broke in.

The entry way creaked as you turned around and throwing your knife in warning. Murphy’s eyes were wide as you sent your knife flying near him, landing in the wall just to his left as he threw his hands up in surrender. “It’s just me!” He assured you and you let a breath, glad you didn’t hit him. “Listen, we need to talk about Clarke and Abby.”

“Quiet.” You told him and Murphy was taken back. “Someone’s in the house.” You stepped aside, letting him see the broken glass on the windowsill.

Emori, unknown to the presence of an intruder, was still trying to ransack the mansion, saving all she could for her and Murphy. She was digging through a cabinet, grabbing the can goods inside but once she closed it, a man was waiting on the other side of the door. He attacked her, throwing her on the floor as she fought back but he was overpowering her greatly. “John! John!” She yelled out as the man grabbed a knife.

From down the hall, Murphy and you heard Emori’s shouts and Murphy took off, not sparing a glance to see you running off behind him. When you entered the kitchen, the man had Emori pinned to the ground with a knife over her. Murphy grabbed a cutting board. “Get the hell off of her!” He screamed before slamming the cutting board into his face, sending the intruder backwards. You rushed to help Emori up as Murphy tried to hit him again, but Emori stopped him.

“Wait!” She yelled as Murphy began his swing, abruptly stopping himself. “He’s mine.” She tried standing up, leaning on you until she was on her feet. She didn’t last long however, falling into Murphy’s arms. “You son of a bitch!” Murphy held her back and did know what to do, watching Murphy kept his girl from murdering. “If we don’t kill him now, he will kill us.”

You furrowed your brows, stepping between Emori and this man. “Wait a minute, do you know him?”

Emori finally stopped fighting, giving the man a death glare. “Baylis.”

Baylis was panting as he tried to sit up. “She’s lying. You don’t know me.”

Emori fought out of Murphy’s grip. “You said you’d kill me! Well, guess what planhaka, I’m gonna kill you!”

Baylis started to stand up and being quite confused on the situation, you decided it was best not to let him leave. You pointed your knife at him, getting it close to his face. “Don’t move.” He put his hands up, pleading to you.

“Just let me go and I’ll leave the food. You’ll never have to see me again.”

You shook your head, needing more information. “Is he alone?” you asked Emori.

“Not usually.” Her harsh whispered worried Baylis as she walked slowly towards him. “Where are the others?”

He just shook his head, looking between the 3 of you. “I don’t know who the hell you think-“

Emori cut his sentence off with a swift kick to the jaw, sending him back again. “Stumucha!” you watched her continue to kick him as you called out to her. She stopped her attack, turning to you with blood dripping from her head as she got in your face. “You don’t know what he did to me.”

You shook your head, understanding her dilemma. “You can tell me about it later, right now we need to know if he’s alone.” You moved past her, looking to Murphy. “Can you tie him up?” Realizing the only weapon you had was your knife, you pulled a steak knife from the drawer, handing it to him. “Here.” He looked down at the knife before back up to you who shrugged. “Protection.” He took it and you looked back to Emori, frowning at the injury to her head. “Can I clean that? Clarke can fix it up later, but can I clean it now?” Emori watched Murphy around you both before she turned to Baylis and you had to grab her attention. “Murphy won’t let him go. Will you, Murphy?”

Murphy let out a laugh, holding a cord he’d stolen from a coffee pot and moving to tie Baylis’ hands behind his back. “Not a chance. We’re gonna have some fun.”

You rolled your eyes at Murphy, before seeing Emori nod. “Fine. Tie him up, but when he’s done talking, the kill’s mine.” Emori walked past you, heading upstairs as you sighed, seeing Murphy finish tying Baylis up before following after her.

---

Bellamy was battling against the rain as he tried to get to Mark and Peter. He could barely see out the front window. “Mark. Come in.” He spoke on the radio, hoping they’re still alright. “Coming up on Factory Station. Almost to you. Over.” He waited, looking between the radio and the road. “Guys, you read me? Don’t go quiet on me now.” Still no reply and Bellamy was cursing the rain and the fact he took so long. “Gonna need help navigating once I’m past the wreckage.” He waited for the response, Kane listening in as well back at Arkadia.

“Yeah I’m here!” Mark yelled into the radio as both men let out relieved sighs. “We’re northwest of the salvage area at about 15 degrees. Just follow the-“ Mark’s sentence was overpowered by the wind and rain, Bellamy getting worried as Mark yelled out for his son repeatedly. “The wind shifted! The rain is blowing in!”

Bellamy shook his head, trying to speed up the rover. “You need to find something to use for cover.” He told them, but there was nothing. The overhang Mark and Peter were under no longer offered any protected and they were burning. “Look south. You should see my headlights in 2 minutes. I’m-“

Lightning struck not far from Bellamy but it managed to give Bellamy enough light for him to see he was headed straight for a tree. On instinct, he turned the rover fast, and the wheels spun out from under, stranding Bellamy in a mud pit.

“Bellamy, I don’t see lights. Where are you?”

Bellamy tried to get out of the mud, backing up, going forward, but nothing worked. “Damn it!” he groaned. “Just a minor delay. Hang on.” Mark came back on the radio, saying that they couldn’t wait but Bellamy didn’t know what to do. On the private channel, Kane tried asking Bellamy what was wrong. “Stuck in the mud. Gonna use the winch to get me out.”

Kane was quick to shut that thought out of Bellamy’s head. “Negative Bellamy, you have no suit and I can hear the rain over the radio. Please, just wait for the storm to pass.” He waited for Bellamy to answer, but obviously Bellamy was reluctant. “Is that clear?” Mark interrupted their talk again, still believing Bellamy to be on his way. “Bellamy, if you go into that storm, three people die instead of two.” Bellamy shook his head, closing his eyes real tight as he thought about anything to help. “You’re out of options. It’s time to let go.”

“You’d said you’d be here. Where the hell are you?”

Realizing Kane was right, Bellamy was heartbroken. “What am I supposed to tell them?” Kane heard the defeat in Bellamy’s voice, knowing how much Bellamy needed this save.

“The truth.”

Giving himself a moment of silence, Bellamy finally told Mark. “Mark. Peter. I can’t get to you.” Mark wasn’t willing to give up. He brought up the idea of meeting Bellamy and carrying Peter himself. “It’s too far Mark. You won’t make it.” Bellamy knew there was no way Mark could make it, let alone carrying Peter. Bellamy barely made it to the rover, let alone through the woods. “I’m sorry. Your only chance is just to wait a little long and when the rain stops, I can dig out.”

“My son is dying! You said that you would help us! Please!”

Bellamy started to break down, his breathing speeding up as he tried again to get the rover moving but it was no point. Mark and Peter were going to die. “No!” he banged on the steering wheel. “No!” He kept shouting over and over again, wishing if he kept hitting, then the rover would start moving.

---

You weren’t a doctor. Not one bit. You tried your best to clean Emori’s wounds, making sure not to hurt her so Clarke could stitch her up if need be. “Should’ve known Murphy’s girlfriend would be a badass. I think you did more damage to him.”

“Not enough yet.” You raised your brows for a moment, aware of Emori’s desire for revenge. She caught your look, giving you a scoff. “Don’t tell me you’ve never killed for revenge.” You let your hand fall, not giving Emori an answer because the truth was, your first kill, the one you will always remember, was for your revenge. She picked up on your look, now knowing you had. “I’m going to make him suffer for what he did to me and my brother.” You listened to her, watching her cross the room as she spoke. “I’m gonna cut him for every time he cut me. I’m gonna make him beg the way I begged.”

You stood up and gulped before calling her name. “We’re not going to let him hurt you again.”

She let out a pitied laugh. “I don’t need you to protect me, Y/N. I can protect myself like I always have.”

“I know what that’s like.” You told her. You’ve been your own protector since you were 8. Trusting others to protect you hasn’t been as easy as you hoped.

Emori shot her head to yours, scoffing at you. “Like hell you do. I was cast out of my clan as an infant because of this.” She held up her hand, showing you her deformity before she went on. “I was forced to steal to survive. Forced to kill.” She looked at you with distrust. “You were loved. Told you were special. I was thrown away like someone’s garbage. You know nothing of my pain.”

“I don’t.” you agreed. She eyed you up and down. “I don’t know your pain Emori, but you’re not the only one with baggage. I was never told I was special. My mom and dad killed themselves when I was 8 and blamed me. I was arrested when I was 10 and forced to spend another 8 years in a prison lockup with no one until I was shipped down to earth, where I was tortured and banished more times than I wasn’t. Our pain is different but it’s still pain.” She didn’t know what to say. Her ideas of who you and who your people are were knocked down. You laughed at yourself, wetting your lips so you could talk again. “Look, if you wanna kill this guy. Go ahead. I know a thing or two about needing revenge. But it’s not gonna make you whole again. It’s not going to take away your baggage.”

As you had taken Emori upstairs, Murphy stayed down with Baylis, keeping him tied to a chair as he circled around the man. Baylis of course was trying to plead for his life. “I only came for food and things I can trade. I scavenge so my family can eat. Please!”

Murphy scoffed at his attempt. “That’s it. Find the right angle.” Murphy pressed the knife you handed him to Baylis’ leg. “I’ll help you out.” He leaned down to speak into Baylis’ ear. “I love someone who was beaten and tortured by a man who thought he could control her.”

“I’m not that man.” Baylis stopped him. “You can torture me all you want but that won’t change the fact-“ Emori and you had walked into the room, right in time for Emori to punch the guy in the mouth. You stood off to the side, doing nothing to stop her like Murphy thought you would.

“Who’s the scared child now, Baylis?” She threw another hit. “For my brother.” Another hit. “For me!”

Murphy turned to you, seeing you watch emotionless as he narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going to stop her?”

You shrugged, not turning away. “It’s not my place. Besides, he’ll die in Praimfaya anyways.” You told him.

An idea made way in Murphy’s mind, one that quite possibly be the best one he had in a while. “Wait stop!” He yelled out and grabbed Emori, keeping her from attacking Baylis. “You’ll kill him.”

“That’s the point.” Emori growled, trying to get free from Murphy.

“No, I mean, what if his death could save everyone.” Murphy asked and Emori froze. You, having no clue about Abby and Clarke’s theory stood against the wall confused.

Emori and Murphy shared a smile and you decided to speak up. “What are you talking about?” you asked the couple. They didn’t say anything, the thought of using Baylis as the tester instead of Emori sat perfectly with them. “Guys?”

---

Tensions in the cave where awful, Octavia and Ilian’s shelter from the rain, while keeping them safe, was not their favorite scenario. Ilian tried making conversation with Octavia, but she just stared at the fire in front of her and sharpened her knife. “Where will you go?” Ilian broke their silence. “When the storm passes.” Octavia didn’t say anything, leading Ilian to continue. “I don’t know either. If I go home, Ill see their faces everywhere and in everything.” The death of his family still clouded his mind. “The windmill I helped my father build to grind the corn for sheep. The room I shared with my brother. The fence…” His paused, gulping as the image of his mom flashed through his mind. “The fence I tied my mother to before I cut her fingers off.” Memories of the rest of his families followed his mothers. “Before I cut my father’s throat. Before I cut my brother’s throat.”

“Go home Ilian.” Octavia was growing tired of Ilian. “You’re not a murderer. You feel the way you’re supposed to feel after you take a life.” Their eyes met before Octavia looked back down to the knife. “I feel nothing. Now go back to your stupid sheep.”

“I don’t believe you.” Ilian shook his head in defiance. “I saw the pain in your face when you aimed that gun at my head.”

“We’re done talking.”

“You may not want to feel it, but it’s there.”

Octavia was irritated, not only with him but with herself. “I should’ve pulled that trigger.”

“Why didn’t you?” Octavia mumbled for him to shut up but Ilian wouldn’t listen. “You think you’re a killer, but you couldn’t kill me. Whatever escape from the pain you were looking for wasn’t there anymore.” Ilian could tell he was getting to her, the lost look on her face more than enough to show him. “I told you my sad story. Tell me yours. What made you like this?” Once again, Octavia yelled at him to shut up, not wanting to talk about… Lincoln. She planted herself in front of the fire and Ilian moved to her side. “I think the person you were before this happened is still in there.”

Octavia tried to ignore the thoughts in her head, each one filling her with nothing but pain. “You’re wrong.” She whispered before standing up. Ilian didn’t know what she was doing but she did. She walked slowly straight to the cave entrance, her eyes falling close and arms stretching out as she got closer. She wanted to walk out into the burning rain. Ilian chased after her, calling out her name before he finally caught up to her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her back into the cave. “No! No, I need this! Let me go!” She yelled as Ilian and her fought, the man succeeding as he brought her back fully inside the cave, safe from the rain. “I should’ve killed you!” she yelled before slapping him. Her attack cause Ilian to faulter enough for Octavia to run by but she didn’t get far. They landed on the ground, Octavia still struggling to get out of the cave until Ilian had her on her back, her hands pinned above her head. “Let me go, please!” she cried out but he wouldn’t let her kill herself.

“Stop. Just stop.” He whispered and Octavia knew she couldn’t fight anymore. Her cries overcame her as she stopped fighting, aware of Ilian’s body above hers. She didn’t want to feel this pain and this heartbreak anymore. Ilian let up a little, letting Octavia move out from under him, but before he got much farther, she stopped him, shocking him when she kissed him.

Ilian wasn’t expecting that. He stood up, looking down at the broken girl. “Just make me feel something else.” She begged him as she stood up, coming face to face. Not sure on what to do, Ilian didn’t make a move, mumbling her name in case Octavia changed her mind. She didn’t however, pushing him against the wall to sit as she then sat in his lap. Their eyes met briefly before their lips, both of their broken feelings disappearing only for a little while as they lost their clothes, not wasting time while stuck in the rain.

---

Abby was pacing about Becca’s lab as she thought about every option you all had. Testing out the bone marrow meant sentencing someone to death. Could she really do that? She put her tablet down, feeling her hand shake as she tried to take a deep breath to calm.

“Abby, are you there?” Kane’s voice came through the radio on the desk as Abby’s spirits lifted.

She rushed to pick up the radio, speaking as soon as she could. “I’m here.” She smiled. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

As much as Kane wanted to listen to Abby’s voice as well, he had to be the bearer of bad news. “I have bad news, Abby. The black rain’s here.” Abby’s spirits fell immediately as she listened to Kane speak. “It’s worse than we thought. It burns on contact and it kills. After today, the water won’t be drinkable and we’ve already lost what we had stored in the fire. We have enough for a couple of weeks, but after that-“

“I know what happens after that.”

“We need a solution.” Kane mumbled, resting his head against his hand. Abby did have a solution, she just didn’t know if the solution was the best choice.

“There may be a solution.” She said before hearing Kane’s hopeful voice. “But to find it, I have to do something I never thought I’d have to do.” She never wanted to sacrifice someone.

Kane didn’t have to be in front of her to know Abby was struggling. He wished he could be there to comfort Abby, but with her at the lab and him in Arkadia, it wasn’t an option. “You’ll make the right decision.” He assured her. “You always do.”

Abby fell silent, needing Kane’s confidence in her. “Can I ask you something?” Kane was always there to listen to her. “If I take a life to find a cure, does that make me a murderer?”

Kane was shocked. Out of everything Abby could’ve asked him, he wasn’t prepared. He let out a heavy sigh. “Abby, I-I don’t know how to answer that.” He admitted sadly. “I wish I did.”

“What if it can save us all? Would I be able to live with myself then?”

“Taking a life should never be easy. I hope it’s not easy for you.” Kane assured her. “Your humanity is your greatest strength. Sometimes we need a different kind of strength to survive. Then we can find our humanity again.”

“I hope you’re right Marcus.” Kane knew Abby had her troubles but he had his own problems to deal with. Right now, Harper was crying over Louis, the man finally succumbing to the black rain’s burns. He knew Harper blamed herself and as much as either of them wanted to help Louis and the others harmed by the rain, there was nothing to do. Bellamy came over the radio, asking for Mark and Peter to respond as Kane and Abby bid their goodbyes.

Bellamy with the hope that Mark and Peter were still alive, spoke on the radio to them. “The rains on its way out. You still with me?” Mark and Peter didn’t reply. Bellamy kept trying, assuring them when the rain clears, he’d be on his way as soon as he could.

“Bellamy, you did your best.” Kane tried to get Bellamy to see but he couldn’t.

“I failed and they died.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I can’t protect anyone.” Bellamy argued with him. His voice cracked as he tried to remain strong, all his failures eating him away. “I can’t protect Y/N. I couldn’t even protect my sister.” He let his eyes closed as he tried to breathe, the memory of coming back and finding out she left taking its hit on Bellamy. “My responsibility and I failed. My mom passed out and she was there, she was in my hands and now what is she? Is she even alive? Is she-“

“You didn’t fail, Bellamy.” Kane interrupted his spiral. If Bellamy continued all he would do was blame himself for anything he couldn’t control. “You did everything you could for her. You came to the ground for her. You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.” Bellamy didn’t want to agree with Kane. He wanted to save his sister. He wanted to protect her, he always wanted to protect her. “Your mother would be proud of the man you’ve become. I know I am.”

Bellamy felt his anger bubble inside him at Kane praise. “You floated my mother.” He reminded Kane bitterly before tossing the radio onto the rover’s dash, ending the conversation with Kane.

Kane, knowing the conversation was over as well, hung up the radio, hearing Harper cry softly behind him. He approached her, putting his hand on her shoulder in comfort as she avoided looking at him. “Who you want to be doesn’t always win.” Kane walked away slowly and as soon as he was gone, Harper let her cries come out once again for she knew they never had a chance at winning.

---

The sun was shining the next morning as Octavia laid on the ground in the cave, thinking over last night’s events with Ilian. As much as she didn’t want to feel anything, she couldn’t push away her emotions. She was only human, after all. Ilian came back from outside, having checked the skies for rain as Octavia got up. “The storm’s over.” Ilian picked his shirt off the ground and putting it on. Octavia followed suit, pulling her shoes on. “You have somewhere to go now?”

Ilian nodded, deciding Octavia was right last night. “I’m going home, back to my stupid sheep.” Octavia let out a small sigh at Ilian’s plan. Ilian knew Octavia had no where to go where she wanted. “Walk into the setting sun and you’ll find it.” He told her but she scoffed. “Or don’t.”

Octavia didn’t say anything as Ilian left her alone, heading back to his farm without her. Her knives sat on the ground as she picked them up, wiping them over her pants before holding them in her hands. She didn’t want to be a killer. She didn’t want to try to isolate her thoughts from her feelings. She wanted to feel something without the heartbreak and emptiness for once.

She tossed her knifes into the puddle of fresh water they used to clean themselves yesterday, wanting to leave the killer life.

Ilian was walking through the woods, feeling better going home than he had earlier. Despite knowing what nightmares awaited him, Octavia was right. It didn’t matter what ALIE made him do, Ilian wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t far from the cave before hearing horses’ clops behind him and he turned to see Octavia heading towards him. He stopped walking, furrowing his brows as she came up next to him.

“Get on. I’ll take you home.” Octavia stretched her hand out for Ilian to take. He stared at her offered hand before smiling and let her help him up onto Helios and the duo rode to Ilian’s house in silence, deciding it best not to talk about last night.

---

Bellamy hated driving back to Arkadia from without Mark and Peter, but they didn’t make it. Kane was waiting as he arrived, the rain now completely stopped and safe for them to be outside. Bellamy hopped out of the rover, heading over to Kane. “Still no word from Octavia.” Kane told him and Bellamy tried to remain strong. “I’m sorry.”

Bellamy paused for a moment. “You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.” He whispered, finally understanding Kane’s point. If anyone was going to save Octavia, it had to be herself.

---

When Murphy and Emori had told you about the Bone Marrow treatment, you didn’t know what to say. Sacrificing someone for the sake of saving humanity… Was it worth it? If Baylis wasn’t here, how would that decision have turned out? Who would’ve been the sacrifice?

Baylis was brought to the lab as soon as the idea sprouted and everyone struggled to come to terms with the idea. Clarke and Abby explained the theory to you better than Emori and Murphy could and while the idea of sacrificing someone seemed horrendous, it had to be done. You hated it, but you voted for using Baylis as the bone marrow tester. Someone had to do it so why not use a monster?

Clarke and Abby listened to you, having known nothing more about Baylis than what you, Murphy, and Emori had brought up, but you led the charge, Emori stay unnervingly quiet.

You had decided to stand back next to the stairs as Clarke and Abby were injecting Baylis with the Nightblood. Roan was standing with them, keeping eyes on the situation much like you thought he would. Murphy and Emori stood right above you on the second level, leaning over the railing as they watched the scene unfold. “I hope he survives.” Murphy mumbled.

Emori nodded her head. “Me too.”

Murphy, thinking his girlfriend was joking, smirked at her. “Why? So you could kill him?”

Emori turned to look at him, thinking about what she’s done. “Why would I do that?” Murphy’s face fell entirely.

“It isn’t him?” he asked and Emori shook her head, letting John in on her secret. “Emori, who is he?” He asked with a slight urgency.

“Someone other than me who’s going into that oven.” She said with zero remorse.

Murphy’s smirk slowly came to his face as he understood what Emori done. “Now that is a survivor’s move.” He said proudly. If this worked and ‘Baylis’ survived, then humanity survives, but if he doesn’t, then it wasn’t Emori. In his eyes, it was brilliant.

But you, who stood right below them and in the perfect spot to overhear, were seething. Emori played all of you, but she played you the most. Sure, the story she gave you about being banished was true, but this man had no part in it at all.

The only crime he’s done was break into the house to feed his family and he was going to die for it.

And it had been your call.

A/N: I’m so sorry this was like super late. Please still love me.

Tags are open!

Permanent: @literal-fand0m-trash @just4muggles @nathaliabakes @colored-confetti @wiseeggspickleslime @btsiguess-kpop @galacticstxrdust @independentgirl @hollymac79 @delicately-important-trash @emcchi @rauwz @herondalescecilys @chewymoustachio @smilexcaptainx @faith-quake @clarkesplaylist @johnmurphyisbisexual @kettnerjanea

Bellamy: @jodiereedus22 @mysterioustruffle @danielabetancourth @a-sweet-little-fangirl @werosies @missxmoonchild @gxvrielle

Banished: @strangerliaa @peter-parker-tony-stank-trash @abysshaven @poisoned-girl @captainam-erika-trash @annoylinglyaries @peqchynero @buckysjuicyplums @your-typical-giggle @thelastdragon6 @savannah0111 @mckeeee-1 @disneychic8 @hyperion-moonbabe-art3mis @oopsiedoopsie23 @crashlyrose @miindfvl @hurricane-abigail @thebookisbtr @txladyj-blog @lauren-100 @mrsjandrews @astroninaaa @broco8 @kittymcdougall12 @capsheadquaters @mikariell95 @acciowinchester @samustar @trashmouth-lizzy @where-are-you-everywhere @smol-book-nerd @cashmereandtears @lilacs-lavender @itsthelastcatastro-phe @sireddobrev @fashion-travel @awkwardspontaneity @jacobblacksbitch @livlynn24

#Bellamy Blake x reader #bellamy blake imagine #bellamy blake series #bellamy blake #the 100 x reader #the 100 imagine #the 100 series #the 100 #banished #banished series #banished new chapter #banished part 52 #part 52 #4x07

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pinknerdpanda · 4 years

Text

Breakfast, Interrupted

Word Count: 1,789

Characters: Steve, Bucky x reader

Warnings: Floof! Long Suffering!Steve, Language

Requested by: @princessmisery666 - love you boo! Xoxo The prompts she sent me are bolded below.

SSB Square Filled: Play Fighting @star-spangled-bingo

Beta’d by the always wonderful @shy-violet-soul and @hannahindie I love you both so very much.

A/N: This is pure ridiculousness. The song referenced in the fic is here. If you’ve never experienced the gloriousness of this song, you need to. Honestly I can’t think of a better time than now. God bless Brak.

A/N 2: I am using my new and improved taglist. If you want to be added, see this post.

Breakfast, Interrupted

A quiet breakfast. That's all Steve really wanted. The dew still clung to the grass as he'd come back from his morning run. He'd showered and changed and made his way to the kitchen. The fridge yielded an array of options before him. He settled on fresh berries and yogurt with a light sprinkling of granola on top and a tall, glorious glass of orange juice.

A quiet breakfast. Steve smiled to himself as he took his seat at the table and spread a napkin across his lap. However, just as he was about to scoop the first delicious bite, a loud, obnoxious voice broke his blissful silence.

"Whoa. Hey. Don't touch me!"

The spoon clattered to the table as a very irritated Bucky stomped into the kitchen. Steve took in his friend's disheveled appearance: rumpled sweats, bleary eyes, sleep-matted hair and a frustrated scowl. Steve groaned, a question poised on his lips, but Bucky raised a hand to cut him off before running it through his hair.

"Apparently we're fighting. Don't ask."

Steve narrowed his gaze as Bucky stomped to the fridge, tugging the jug of orange juice out, filling a glass and downing it in one go. He sighed, pouring himself another glass.

"Trouble in paradise?" Steve's brow tilted in question as he picked up his spoon again.

Bucky scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Something like that."

Steve hummed and turned his attention back to his breakfast. Gathering the perfect ratio of berries, yogurt and granola, Steve's mouth watered in anticipation.

Y/n barreled into the kitchen, marching toward the fridge and pointedly ignoring Bucky.

"Good morning, Cap," she beamed before glaring at Bucky. "Well, I suppose that's relative, considering someone drank the last of the orange juice."

Spoon poised halfway to his lips, Steve looked up to find Bucky guiltily glancing between the half-drunk orange juice in his hand and the empty jug in front of him. Y/n crossed her arms over her chest, phone clutched tightly in one hand. Bucky coughed.

"Sweetheart, come on," he pled, reaching out to her.

Y/n took a dramatic step back and tapped her phone a few times. The sound of spitting preceeded the same annoying voice as before.

"Whoa. Hey. Don't touch me!"

More rhythmic spitting and Bucky's head dropped in defeat. Y/n smirked, nodding her head in time with the spitting and shrieking along with the voice's off-tune refrain.

"Don't touch me!"

The spoon in Steve's hand fell to his bowl, the contents of his breakfast muting the soft thud. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What the fuck is going on with you two?"

Y/n tapped her phone again, cutting off the...well, Steve wouldn't exactly classify it as a song, but didn't know what the hell else to call it...mid screech.

Y/n clicked her tongue, tucking the phone into her pocket. "Language, Steven!"

Steve hung his head, mirroring his friend. All he'd wanted was a quiet, peaceful breakfast, but he rarely got exactly what he wanted, so why start now?

"She's mad at me because," Bucky paused and growled in frustration. He turned to y/n. "You know what? I don't even know why you're mad at me! You won't talk to me and let me try and fix it. No, no, no. Instead you just play that damn song at me anytime I get within a foot of you. So please," he sounds a vibranium hand towards Steve, "explain to both of us just what I've done to piss you off."

Steve's eyes flicked between them. Bucky's chest heaved with frustration as he stared at her. Y/n seethed, a quiet, simmering rage that flared her nostrils, narrowed her gaze and tensed her shoulders. Between the two of them - knowing full well what his best friend of 70 years was capable of given a weapon and decades of brainwashing - y/n terrified Steve.

"If you don't know, then that's an even bigger problem." Y/n's tone was deathly calm as she turned on her heels and stalked out of the room.

Bucky turned wide, confused eyes at Steve. Nothing about this morning had been or was ever going to be quiet. Or peaceful. And at this point he was convinced it wasn't even going to involve breakfast. Steve sighed.

"Try to remember, Buck. What happened?"

Bucky threw his arms in the air, his head falling backward as a groan rumbled from deep within him.

"I don't fuckin' know."

Whiny wasn't a word Steve had ever used to describe James Buchanan Barnes. To be honest, it was never something he'd even considered having to use in reference to him. And yet, Bucky was pacing and grumbling; petulant and, well, whiny.

"We went to bed and everything was fine." Bucky stopped pacing and smirked. "Everything was more than fine. The things she can do with her -"

Steve stood, slicing the air between them with a flattened palm. "I'm gonna stop you right there. I don't need the lurid details of your love life." A memory of the calm fury he'd seen in y/n's eyes moments ago flashed through his mind and he shuddered. He did not want to be on her bad side, and knowing intimate details of she and Bucky's relationship would surely land him there.

Bucky groaned again, jamming his palms harshly into his eye sockets. "I don't know Steve! I woke up and she was just staring at me like I'd kicked a puppy."

Steve scoffed. "Again?"

"That was one time and I swear to God it was an accident!" Bucky flinched. "I still see that poor bastard in my nightmares."

His breakfast now too warm to enjoy, Steve collected his bowl and dumped the contents down the garbage disposal. Even all these years later the thought of wasting precious food made his stomach turn. He rinsed the bowl and spoon and faced his friend.

"What happened then?"

"I asked her what was wrong and she growled at me. Growled, Steve. Growled." Bucky blew out a breath and planted his hands on his hips. "I tried to kiss her and she started playing that goddamn song."

"Oh." Steve wrinkled his nose. "What the hell was that anyway?"

Bucky's eyes widened. "Right?! It's some cartoon or something, but it's so annoying!"

"Buck," Steve began, straightening his spine and filling his words with every ounce of his Cap voice he could muster. "I think you just need to go talk to her."

"Seriously? That's it?!" Bucky's jaw fell open, incredulity seeping into his expression.

"Seriously. Now, please - and I say this with all the love in my heart - get out of my face before I punch you."

Without another word or a glance behind him, Steve left his oldest friend to stew in the consequences of whatever mistake he'd made - consciously or otherwise.

---

Y/n sat cross-legged on the still unmade bed she shared with her boyfriend of three years. Things between her and Bucky hadn't always been smooth sailing, but they were happy. They prided themselves on having an open and honest relationship free of games and mistrust. But this? Well, this was stupid.

She was taking this too far. She recognized this. She'd been ready to kiss and make-up the moment she'd tutted Steve in the kitchen for his language. But then Bucky had to go and open his big mouth right there for anyone (Steve) to hear. Not just that, he didn't even know why she was so mad in the first place!

Though to be fair, he really didn't. She reasoned with herself that there was no logical way he could know what had transpired between them in her dreams. But that didn't stop her from being furious about it.

Their door flung open and y/n tensed, her hand poised over her phone, ready to hit play on the song of her discontent. Bucky froze, his fingers still wrapped around the doorknob. He looked so lost with his greasy, mussed hair and the adorable little crease between his eyebrows as he glanced between her and the phone in her hand.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry," he sighed, closing the door softly and scrubbing a hand down his face. "I know you're upset with me, and I just wish I knew what I did so that I could fix it."

He took a tentative step forward but stopped as her finger hovered over the screen.

"Please, baby." His voice was full of confused anguish.

Y/n took a modicum of pity on him and pushed her phone away. Bucky breathed a sigh of relief but made no effort to come closer.

Pulling her knees up toward her chest, y/n wrapped her arms around them and studied the pattern of the blanket before her.

"I dreamt last night that you cheated on me with that waitress from the other night."

Saying the words out loud made her realize how foolish this whole situation was. But she'd be damned if she would say that out loud now. She looked up to find Bucky squinting at her, the crease between his eyebrows furrowing deeper as he opened and closed his mouth a few times. It wasn't often that Bucky Barnes was speechless and even when he was it didn't last long.

"You're mad at me because I slept with some girl in your dream?"

Y/n nodded and Bucky grinned, taking a step forward. Scooping up her phone again, she wielded it like a weapon, silently threatening him not to come any closer lest his ears fall victim yet again to Brak and his toneless reprise. Bucky inched forward, unfazed. Before she could unleash her weapon upon him, Bucky seized the phone and tossed it aside before tackling her to the bed.

"Get off me, you brute!" She pounded her fists uselessly against his chest, trying not to giggle as Bucky rained kisses over her face and neck. "Bucky!"

He stopped, pulling back enough to look into her eyes. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face and he smiled at her. The overwhelming love that shone in the azure depths of his gaze was enough to punch the air from her lungs.

"Y/n, I'm sorry you had such a bad dream. But I promise you, baby, that's all it was." Bucky stroked her cheek with a cool finger and bumped his nose against hers. "Just a dream. You're the only girl for me. I love you."

Y/n threaded her fingers through his chestnut locks and pulled his face down to hers. Their lips were just a breaths width apart as she whispered.

"I love you too, Bucky. How about some breakfast?"

Like what you see? Want more? My SPN Masterlist is here, and MCU is here. Thanks for reading! :)

FYI: I’ve updated my tag list, so if you don’t see your name below and want to, send me an ask. Weirdos are for everything, Heroes is MCU and Hunters is for SPN.

Weirdos:

@hannahindie @amanda-teaches @ellen-reincarnated1967 @feelmyroarrrr @masksandtruths @princessmisery666 @jamielea81 @foxyjwls007 @becs-bunker @super100012 @shy-violet-soul @emoryhemsworth

Heroes:

@arrowsandmixtapes @bethbabybaby

#bucky barnes x reader #MCU fanfic #bucky x reader #panda writes #panda writes MCU #steve rogers

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delimeful · 5 years

Text

cut clean from the dream (1/3)

warnings: person being treated as merchandise, mentions of murder/injury, panic, fear, crying, sharp implements, feeling trapped

A small bell’s ring echoed through the small store as the door was pushed open, the first customer of the day.

Logan couldn’t see them from his shelf, but he heard the rapid footsteps of the shopkeep emerge right on schedule, approaching them with vigor.

“Hello! Anything in particular I can help you with today?”

“Uh…” An uncertain voice, low in contrast to the shopkeeper's shrillness.

Logan sighed, tuning the conversation out and turning away from the mid-morning light. The rounded bottle he was in wasn’t great for sleeping, which was a shame, seeing as being trapped as merchandise in a local potions shop was already enough of a nightmare.

He’d love to pretend that he had no idea how this had happened, but what it really came down to was his own foolishness. It had only taken investigating the bag of a hitchhiker who came back earlier than expected, and his habit of trying to glean knowledge from humans got him well and truly captured, passed from hand to hand in sales until he wound up here. Far from home, and everything he’d ever known, and Patton.

His gossamer butterfly wings fluttered, agitated, and he sat back up. There was really no point trying to get back to sleep with such thoughts hammering against his skull, and the shopkeep was busy jumping around the store with loud, heavy steps anyways. He rested his chin on his hand to watch the man go by, figuring he could at least see what this new customer looked like.

He didn’t expect the two humans to stop right in front of him. He stiffened, suddenly straining to hear the words properly through the glass.

“-have any stock left of severed wings, unfortunately, our next order comes in around three or four days. However, as you can see here, we do have a fairy with wings intact! It’ll be a little pricier, obviously, but I can give you a discount for the trouble!”

The customer was a tall, skinny figure draped in black from his cloak-like apparel to his makeup, staring at Logan with dark purple eyes. Definitely a witch, going by the sigil tattoos along the patches of visible exposed skin. Logan narrowed his eyes back at him, trying to look like trouble. It’d be much easier to just come back after a few days than deal with the delicate process of shredding the wings from a fairy. The witch dragged his gaze over to the shopkeep, looking exhausted.

“I don’t need a whole fairy. You seriously don’t have any wings in stock? Like, in the back or anything?” He asked, looking already resigned to the answer.

“Afraid not, that is a rather rare ingredient with the elusiveness of fairies.” The shopkeep hummed. “Is this a budget thing? If you’re willing to wait a few hours, I can call in our alchemist and have him harvest this fairy and get you just the wings for a lower price.”

Logan felt the color drain from his face, hopes shattered. He looked away from the human’s piercing gaze, trying to keep the dizzying panic from overwhelming him. He’d heard the stories. He’d known it would turn out this way since he got captured. It wasn’t a surprise, just an unpleasant eventuality.

“Ugh.” The witch pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Just… I’ll take the fairy.”

“Excellent!” The shopkeep clapped cheerily as Logan’s stomach dropped. He whisked the glass bottle off the shelf, hurrying over to the register and leaving Logan sprawled on the clear bottom of it, watching the ground below whiz by. He grimaced as the bottle was set down, shoving against the glass wall to prop himself back up and scoop his glasses up off the bottom of the bottle.

The transaction took place over his head, and then long fingers wrapped around the glass, and he was lifted up again, slower this time. The bottle was carefully tucked into a pocket of the cloak, and everything went dark and muffled. For a while, Logan’s world was reduced to the small gap of light and noise from the pocket opening, swaying with the momentum of the human’s steps.

He pressed up against the lid of the bottle despite knowing it was futile. The enchantment on it held strong, and would remain that way until it was opened from the outside by his new captor. He’d only have one chance at escape. He’d have to use it wisely.

The noise overhead died down, and a door thudded closed. There was some muffled conversation, another door, and then finally quiet. Logan braced himself just in time for the hand to grab the neck of the bottle, pulling him back into the light.

Even after the darkness of the pocket, the room wasn’t blinding. It seemed dimly lit, heavy black curtains over the windows and halloween-themed fairy lights strung on the walls. Logan blinked. It was still the summer months, was it not?

His attention was drawn back to the witch as he set the bottle on his desk, sighing as he sat heavily on the chair in front of it. Logan refused to flinch as he leaned in to look at the bottle, face warped oddly by the glass. The witch scrubbed his hands through his hair and sighed again, pulling a piece of wide parchment out and scrawling a sigil on it with a red ink pen that smelled suspiciously of iron.

A moment later, Logan’s prison was finally being opened, and he stumbled as the jar was tilted on its side, opening resting on the human’s palm. He seized the opportunity, kicking off the glass wall to propel himself out of the jar into fresh air.

A second after he flitted out, there was a sudden yank on his leg, and he found himself dragged down to the desk below by a shackle made of thick, shadowy magic.

“Yeah, thought that might happen.” The witch said, voice resonating through Logan now that he wasn’t hearing it from behind a wall of glass. The shackle finished retracting back to the sigil, leaving him pinned down by his leg, and the witch pushed him over with a finger. Logan had the sense to flare his wings out so they wouldn’t get crumpled painfully beneath him, but this left him flat on his back and vulnerable. He shuddered, wings slapping against the wood ineffectively.

Above him, the witch was casually pulling some kind of tool from a drawer, and Logan felt a flare of irritation break through his fear. He opened his mouth before he could think better of it. “You could not just wait for three measly days? Truly?

The witch paused, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow. Logan refused to cower, even when the witch leaned his elbows on the desk, arms bracketing either side of him. He glared back despite the chills running down his spine, and the witch snorted.

“Big attitude for someone so small.” He muttered, but he looked tiredly amused rather than angry. “I can’t wait three days, actually, because this project is due in two.”

Great. A procrastinating student was going to be the one to kill him, after trying to learn was what got him into this mess in the first place. He let his head thunk back down onto the desk, eyes stinging with frustrated tears.

“Tell me you at least know how to… how to harvest my wings.” Logan said, bile rising in his throat. He forced himself to keep speaking, his voice coming out sharp. “If I have to spend my last living moments watching an amateur mangle my body, I will be very unhappy.”

“Hey, I’m no amateur. I wouldn’t have bought a whole goddamn fairy if I didn’t know how to...” He gestured vaguely. “You know.”

“Reassuring.” Logan responded dryly, and the witch gave him a half-hearted glare before pulling out a few metallic square rocks.

Weights, Logan realized as they were placed at the outer corners of his wings, pinning them down so that they couldn’t move. His wingspan was large enough that he couldn’t reach the weights with his hands, and his breathing began to speed up as he instinctively tried to pull his wings free, to no avail. After this, he wouldn’t ever move them again. He suddenly wished fervently that he’d gotten more than that brief heartbeat of freedom outside the jar, that he’d at least been able to fly more than a few inches, even if escape was futile.

Movement above him caught his eye, and he realized that the witch was staring down at him with a strange expression, with a sharp metal tool in one hand. He stared at it for a moment, and then decided that he didn’t want to watch himself be taken apart, actually, and closed his eyes, swallowing heavily.

Despite knowing logically that being captured meant he was going to die, being faced with his own imminent mortality still made some primal part of him feel panicked and fearful. Patton would be proud of him, admitting that he did feel things after all.

Oh, stars, Patton. Logan had vanished without even telling him where he was going. The bubbly sprite would never even know what happened to him. He hoped desperately that Patton wouldn’t search for him, wouldn’t get himself in trouble because of Logan’s own foolishness. The pressure behind his eyes finally broke, chest shuddering with barely restrained sobs as his cheeks went wet with tears. And why shouldn’t he cry? What was the point of pride when he’d never get to see the stars or his home or Patton ever again?

“Oh man.” There was a long groan from above him. “Ugh, I can’t do this.”

Logan blinked his eyes open in surprise, squinting through the blurriness of his tears at the human. “What?” He said, voice thick.

Surprisingly, the witch was not hovering over him menacingly with the tool as he’d imagined. Instead, he was slumped back against his chair, rubbing at his eyes and smearing his eyeliner even further. “I’m gonna fail so hard. What kind of witch can’t even kill a fairy?”

“Are you- what?” Logan repeated, still trying to catch up to the implications of his words. The witch sighed, and then leaned down, smudging a thumb over the ink of the sigil and breaking its circle. The shackle dissipated into dark smoke, and Logan stared up at him.

“Are you… not going to kill me?” He asked, voice tinged with disbelief. The witch cringed.

“Nope. I’ve decided fuck this actually, ‘this’ being my life.” He raised a hand and Logan flinched back, anticipating being crushed, but all the witch did was carefully pluck the weights off of his wings.

Before he could change his mind, Logan scrambled to his feet, wings aflutter. The witch ignored him for the most part as he took to the air, turning to his desk and clearing it off, occasionally glancing at Logan as though worried the fairy was going to dive-bomb him. It didn’t seem like the witch wanted to re-capture him at all. Logan hovered lower cautiously.

“You needed to do this for your project. What… changed your mind?” He asked. Clearly, he hadn’t learned his lesson about curiosity, but this human was a strange one.

The witch huffed. “What changed my mind is that according to textbooks, fairies are insectoids with no true sentience, only able to mimic human emotions.” He looked sardonically at Logan. “Does that seem true to you?”

“Ah.” Logan said, getting it. “So, because you believe me to be sentient, you’re… letting me go?”

“Yeah, that’s the long and short of it. I know what real terror looks like, and you weren’t ‘mimicking’ anything. I’m not going to kill a person, no matter how shitty a witch that makes me.” He finished, wiping some dust from his desk before walking to the window and pulling the drapes open.

The warm light of a setting sun poured into the room, and Logan watched as the witch unlatched and then opened his window. “There you go.” He said, and stepped back.

Logan landed on the windowsill, staring at the unfamiliar silhouettes of the buildings around him. He spread his wings out fully and focused on home, on the tug of magic in his core that would guide him back.

Nothing.

He tried again, feeling tears of frustration threatening at the corner of his eyes when his magic remained frustratingly non-responsive.

“Uh, you good?” The witch asked, making him jump in surprise. He had to stop letting his guard down around this stranger.

“No.” Logan responded shortly. “I cannot access my homing magic, and without it I fear I shall not be able to find my way back without being captured again or becoming terribly lost.”

“You can’t access it, huh… Could I, uh… could you show me your wrists?” The witch asked, holding out a hand hesitantly. Logan tilted his head, wary.

“How do I know you won’t simply trap me again?”

The witch rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Okay, I’m not trying to be, like… a jerk. But if I wanted to hurt you or keep you trapped, I would have just done it back when I had you pinned to a table. There’s literally no reason for me to let you go only to con you back into containment.”

“Hm. That is true.” Logan admitted, and flew up to the witch’s hand without fanfare, standing on the edge of his palm. The witch blinked, startled, and Logan presented a hand with an eyebrow raised impatiently.

“Right.” The witch muttered, and leaned in close enough that Logan could have reached out to touch his face. He focused on not being nervous, though it was hard with those eyes locked so intently on him. They seemed to be almost glowing?

The witch retracted, nodding to himself. “Yeah, you’ve got sealing magic on you. It’s human magework, pretty subtle stuff.”

“Can you remove it?” Logan asked immediately, and the witch snorted, jostling him slightly.

“I’m a student, a failing one at that.” The witch bit his lip as Logan’s expression fell. “But I can probably get my hands on some book about sealing magic.”

Logan eyed him suspiciously. “Why would you?”

“Because I want you out of my hair?” The human tried.

“I am not in your hair.” Logan answered, unimpressed with the nonsensical response. The witch sighed.

“How about a deal. You teach me about fairies and their real culture, not the garbage they put in the textbooks, and I’ll help you figure out the basics of human magecraft. Figuring out the sealing magic is out of my depth, though, so you’ll have to tackle that yourself.”

Logan thought the terms through before answering, but there wasn’t much to think on. It was everything he could have wanted, though the human couldn’t have known it. He just had to be careful about what he revealed in case this witch truly was malicious. “Deal.”

“Great.” The witch said, offering his other hand to Logan to shake. “I’m Virgil.”

Logan clasped a hand on Virgil’s fingertip, shaking it once firmly. Virgil’s lip twitched at the movement.

“Logan. When can we get started?” He asked, rising to hover in the air once more.

Virgil’s lips twisted up into a half-smile, and he pulled a worn textbook from the shelf above his desk. “Why not now?”

Logan couldn’t help but return the sentiment, his glow already brightening at the sight of a new source of knowledge.

Despite the rocky start, it seemed to be the beginning of a promising partnership.

#sanders sides #g/t #Giant/tiny #ts virgil #ts logan #fairy #fairy au #writing #my writing #this is a oneshot please dont ask to be tagged thank you!#cut clean from the dream #ccftd #general taglist following

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gothedistance-herc · 4 years

Text

Every Mile Will Be Worth My While ⚡ [Hercette]

In which after Hercules hurts Adella, he makes a decision with the help of the Fates...[takes place: idek honestly, late august??]

@perfectisme-georgette

[tw: talk of blood, injuries, self-hate, mentions of sexual assault, arguing]

HERCULES: Hercules stumbled home in a daze. He was sure any minute the police would be after him. If not for blatant injury, then death. He was sure that he had killed Adella. His mouth was dry, his hands were shaking. He felt like he was going to be sick. Once he managed to get his key through the door (literally, he accidentally shoved his fist through the keyhole, blasting out part of his door), he fell into the house and collapsed in a chair, immediately putting his head between his knees.

He didn’t know how long he sat like that for before he heard Georgette’s voice. She must have opened the door when she noticed it wasn’t locked (due to the huge hole.)

Shit. He’d forgotten that they were going out to dinner tonight.

“Shit,” he said out loud, jerking up as if someone had prodded him with a taser. His hands were still bloody. His face and shirt too. He stood up, scrambling back like an injured, abandoned dog might. Forgetting that his girlfriend was nearly indestructible. All he knew was that he could feel his own power pumping through his veins and knew that it was out of his control right now. Which meant he couldn’t, shouldn’t touch anyone.

“Just--just stay over there,” he basically pleaded with her.

GEORGETTE: Georgette was looking forward to her dinner with Hercules. She was even thinking of skipping the wh loool ole dinner part and just hopping straight into dessert. Hey, she was already undead, she figured she should enjoy all the best parts about it.

At least, those had been her original thoughts that were now quickly vanishing out of mind as her eyes fell over the broken through door knob in front of her.

There was a sickening feeling that began to gnaw at the pit of the blonde’s stomach, something felt wrong… and she immediately opened the door.

There was Hercules fully upright, frightened with big skittish eyes and covered in crimson red blood. An immediate rush of concern filled Georgette as she dropped her purse and walked up close to Hercules in a sprint.

Georgette had heard his plea, but she was far too shocked by the blood and clouded by fear that he was hurt that the plea hadn’t registered. All she cared about was knowing if Hercules was okay.

“Hercules, are you okay?! You’re- you’re covered in blood! Are you hurt?! Did you get hurt?! What happened?”

HERCULES: Georgette got closer and Hercules froze, becoming stiff as a board. He felt his heart, even, freeze in his chest. Terrified of hurting Georgette. He knew that he could. He didn’t remember her own strength and magic now, all he remembered was pulling her broken body from beneath the tree trunk. In just a flash, Hercules was pulled back to that moment. That agonizing moment. The pain flashed through him like a lightning bolt and he stumbled backwards, away from Georgette.

He tripped over the coffee table, smashing it to pieces as he stumbled and tried to regain his balance again. “Stay away!” he repeated, his voice tight as a violin string. Tears flooded his eyes, blurring her figure in front of him.

“It happened a-again,” he choked out. “I-I hurt someone. I’m--I’m always hurting someone.”

He bowed his head and scrubbed at his face. He didn’t deserve to cry.

“And it will keep happening, as a matter of fact,” came a voice that was at once foreign and familiar to him.

Hercules blinked the tears out of his eyes and then, they widened as he noticed three women, with cloaks like smoke, sitting in his living room. Clotho, in her square glasses, was poking through the rubble of the coffee table. Lachesis was standing next to Georgette as if she were sizing her up. And Atropos was lounging in the armchair lazily. It was her who spoke next:

“Yes, it would do you good to learn some tact.”

GEORGETTE: Hercules had all but stumbled on his own feet and landed sprawled on the floor breaking the coffee table with him. Georgette knew that he was still pushing her away and even still her immediate reaction was to approach closer and get down to his level the minute he had hit ground.

She was never good at listening especially when what asked of her was not something she wanted and in this case, all she wanted was to comfort Hercules.

This other person that was supposedly harmed was not even a concerning thought for Georgette, honestly, they didn’t even cause a blimp in her thoughts all she cared about was making sure Hercules knew she was here for him.

He wasn’t a monster to her like she was sure he was feeling of himself right now.

Tears began to coat the skin of Hercules’s cheeks and they made her heart ache and her chest bruise. Georgette very gently caught the rest that continued to spill from those beautiful dark chocolate eyes she has grown to love so much with the pad of her thumb. She inched herself closer to place a very soft kiss on Hercules’s forehead.

“Oh Hercules I’m su-” Georgette wasn’t able to complete her sentence stunted by the sudden feeling of a presence beside her. Turning her head, just to make sure that she wasn’t going crazy, sure enough there was someone or something…? Right up next to her!

Georgette immediately jumped right up, caught completely off guard and now staring at three women of the likes of which she has never seen before. (That was saying a lot since she has been through the Underworld)

“Who- who the fuck are they?!”

HERCULES: The feeling of the kiss was still lingering on Hercules’ forehead as he blinked and tried to register the fact that the Fates were standing in his damn living room. For a second, Hercules’ gaze jumped around. Looking for Hades...or maybe Ashton Kutcher to jump out somewhere and tell him that he was being punked.

The Fates didn’t show up in just anyone’s living room.

Hercules was just anyone. He had always felt like a just anyone, even with his powers and how he hurt people. He was still just a just anyone.

Except he wasn’t.

Son of Diana. Demon. Demi-god. Amazon.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your pretty little friend?” pouted Lachesis, standing up with Georgette and reaching out to tug on a piece of her hair playfully.

“Introduce us and you’re one more step on the mend.” This was a command from Clotho.

Hercules cleared his throat. “Er, yeah--these are the...Fates,” Hercules stammered, clearing his throat. “Clotho.” Her eyes glinted behind her glasses. “Lachesis.” She gave a little bow. “And Atropos.” She waved her scissors lazily at Georgette.

“They’ve come to help...I think. I have met them once before when you--”

“Died. So sad. So pretty. It was never supposed to happen, what a pity.” That was Atropos, her voice lilting like she was singing an advertising jingle. She laughed afterwards.

GEORGETTE: Let this important fact be noted: Georgette did not like people touching her hair, especially strangers she didn’t know a lick about. Don’t touch her hair unless you are someone she cares about and honestly that list stretched out to like three people only. Don’t touch her hair, she will verbally assault anyone who was so stupid enough to do so.

That being said, one of the Fates was currently touching her hair and a verbal assault should have followed except that Georgette was currently standing motionless and quiet.

The Fates.

The Fates were currently standing in Hercules’s living room.

See, Georgette knew of the Fates, in the mythological sense. Her mythology was pretty on point and has only gotten more so advanced with Hercules. They would spend time together where Hercules would share mythological stories with her and she would love the excitement in his voice and the spark that would catch his eyes whenever he did.

So, she knew of the Fates, but she often got this picture of three old shrew women who own like three pieces of yarn for hair and passed a mythical eye ball around to share in her mind.

That was not at all what she was seeing now.

Thankfully, or rather un-thankfully really, one of the Fates had said something that immediately erased all of the shock that had settled on her features switching them over to one of a stuck nerve.

“Thank you for that recount of my death, I wasn’t at all very personally aware of it.” She snapped sarcastically.

It probably wasn’t the best idea to throw attitude at three immortal beings who controlled the very tapestry of your life, but they had aggravated a very personal chord and Georgette had an exceptional temper.

“What are you doing here?”

HERCULES: If Hercules wasn’t in the middle of a near-to-full-on break down, maybe he would’ve laughed at Georgette’s peevish attitude towards the Fates. He wasn’t surprised by it, even through the haze of his self-loathing, he could recognize that. He wished there was room for the fondness that he was sure he felt deep down beneath the panic.

All the fates found it amusing, apparently, as they tittered with their dark and ghoulish chuckles that sent shivers up the spine.

“We’ve come to help, do not doubt us. Listen close, you’ve no reason not to trust.” They chanted it in unison like the choruses of old.

Hercules laughed once, humorless, but he sat up so that his elbows hooked around his knees. “Well, you can’t make anything worse.”

“You must go to the land of your mothers,” they recited, “and once you’re there--seek their guidance. It is only through them that your powers manifest and you have a chance.”

Hercules stared and then he stared some more. He knew that they spoke of his birth mother. Someone he tried not to think about often. The wound was still fresh. The confusion over who he was and what it meant was fresh. He hated her, in a way, for damning him to this life due to her own selfishness, but Hercules was too soft to really hold that hate in his heart. So, he pushed it out and ignored it.

But now: the Fates were telling him that she was the key.

“The--Amazons? You want me to go to the Amazons?”

“We know you’re thick, but we thought you were more quick.”

Hercules scoffed. “Thanks. I can’t just go to the Amazons. What makes you think they’ll even listen? Or want to train me?”

“That is for you to decide, we do not see why they cannot coincide.”

“Great.”

GEORGETTE: The Fates wanted Hercules to ask the Amazons for help?! They wanted him to return back to the Underworld and ask the very people who had left him out in this world like some worthless dog without warning or guidance as to what he was going to face?!

Georgette hadn’t even realized when she let out a steely and very unrelenting no.

That was the thing about Georgette, she often spoke before she thought and when angry even more so. It wasn’t something she was planning to change about herself either. She had already learned what staying quiet could do to you. She had stayed quiet once about her rape and look at how that had left her later on in life.

“No.” Georgette repeated clearly so if the Fates didn’t get it the first time they were definitely going to get it now.

“You want Hercules to return back to that god-forsaken hell hole?!”

Quite literally and she had every right to call it as such since she had gone through the Underworld herself. She still remembered every bit of it, every ounce, second, minute and hour of that journey back to the world above. Georgette had images of the Underworld seared into her brain and she had gone through the Underworld once. Hercules had gone through it twice and these fucking hags wanted him to live through that some more?!

“To ask those heartless, barbaric bitches for help?! The same ones that left him to fend for himself in the fucking first place! Those same sorry excuses for beings that knew exactly what he was and didn’t give two flying fucks. If they didn’t care the first time why they hell would they care now? What, would you like Hercules to get on his knees too and beg for that help even though they are the reason for all of it!”

Georgette was seething.

None of it was fair.

Hercules had gone through so much already. He has gone through enough, gone through more than the average person has in a lifetime and the Fates wanted him to do this? Like-like if he wasn’t worth some dignity? Or worth being treated right?

“Did I get this all straight?” She snarled.

HERCULES: Georgette went off.

It didn’t surprise him. Georgette was always going off about something. He found this quality endearing most of the time. She was passionate and he loved that about her. He appreciated her standing up for him, because he could never find it in him to stand up for himself. She had always been good about not making him feel like a monster, like someone worth forgiveness and someone worth protecting. (People didn’t think he needed it, considering that he was nearly indestructible.)

Hercules stayed quiet, though.

He stayed quiet and he thought. Something that Hercules rather spent much time on. He was reactive. He acted. But, there was nothing to act on. Not this moment. He still felt shell shocked by all of this. What had happened to Adella. The Fates in his living room. And more than all of that: the instructions they gave him.

To go see his birth mother. To go venture to the Amazons. To ask them for help.

It had never occurred to him to do that before and he felt like an idiot now. It made sense. If they had the same abilities as him, of course it would make sense for him to train with them, to ask for their help. They knew how to control their abilities. He’d seen it himself.

Thinking over.

Hercules got up off the floor.

Atropos smirked from where she was sprawled in an armchair, touching the tips of her scissors to her fingers.

He walked towards Georgette, putting a hand on her arm.

“It would be that easy?” he directed this at Clotho.

“Easy has nothing to do with it, we’ve told you what to do. Now it is up to you.” Her eyes flicked to Georgette and back to Hercules. She smirked and then, in a blink, the three women disappeared, leaving his apartment just the way they’d come.

The air was heavy with silence.

“I’m going to go,” Hercules said. He turned to face his girlfriend. “If they can help me, I have to go. It doesn’t matter all the rest. I can’t live like this anymore, Georgette.”

GEORGETTE: The Fates disappeared as quick as a batting of an eye and the room was left with a piercing silence. The silence didn’t really bare down on Georgette or cut as deep until Hercules had placed his hand on her arm. The moment he had done that gesture the blonde already knew what his decision was going to be.

And so, she walked away, she placed some space between them and kept her back to Hercules.

She was just so angry and in all that anger was a storm of different emotions whirling around chaotically that Georgette didn’t even know what she was supposed to feel. She wanted to shove him, yell, pound her small fists over his chest again and again. She wanted to strongly and very clearly reiterate all the damage those Amazon hags had caused since Hercules seemed to have missed it all the first time she said it.

She wanted to plead with him not to go. She wanted Hercules to see himself the way she saw him, see how big and how entirely she really loved him because maybe, then maybe he would get it. He would understand all of this anger that was eating at her insides and why the last thing she ever wanted was for him to go back to those women.

And Georgette got it, she did, she understood why all the rest didn’t matter for Hercules. She knew how big his heart was. It wasn’t like hers that only expanded for those she cared about, his heart always yearned to stretch out to everyone, to care for everyone. All injury to himself in the process of it all didn’t matter to him, but it mattered a great deal to Georgette.

He would go, go back through hell and swallow everything else in, risk getting hurt and humiliated and Georgette never wanted that for him.

Was that really so bad? Was it so bad for her to want to protect him? To want more for him?

Did it even matter? He was going, he already said he was as clear as day and that was Hercules. He would go through his decision like a bull in a china shop. Georgette was proof of that herself, she was undead.

Georgette didn’t realize how long she had been staring at the wall or when her hand had wrapped itself around her wrist, her nails sinking into her skin. She took a deep breath in for what purpose she wasn’t sure because it did nothing to suffocate her emotions but she did so anyways before she turned around to look at Hercules. Georgette knew herself very well, she knew that when she looked at Hercules, her eyes wouldn’t even try to hold a single emotion back.

“Then it doesn’t matter what I have to say does it? You’re still going to go.”

HERCULES: “Yeah, I am,” Hercules said hotly.

He rarely put his foot down like this. Pegasus always lovingly referred to him as the strongest pushover they’d ever met—and it was true. Sometimes, Hercules wondered if this was an instinctual habit due to the fact that…Hercules hurt so many things when he stood his ground. He became a solid wall, impossible to break through. And he hated that. So, in all other aspects of his life, he tried to be soft.

But he couldn’t be soft about this. It was tearing him apart, already. He knew that this was what he needed to do. The bloody Fates had told him so! And, besides, it felt like the right decision.

“You don’t have to understand, but it’s what I need to do, Georgette. You—you don’t get it. I can’t keep living my life like this!” His voice rose, surprising even himself. Hercules rarely got this worked up. He had always been afraid of his own temper.

He sighed harshly, his shoulders collapsing. “Look, I’ve got to at least try, Georgette. I can’t live like this. I can’t—make a life for us like this.”

GEORGETTE: Hercules’s voice rose, something Georgette was not used to. It almost took her for a loop and made her flinch. Hercules was not the one that entered into a temper that was Georgette. She was the one that always unleashed her anger not giving a flying care where and how it landed.

But Hercules’s voice rose and it reminded Georgette of Ryan.

She felt awful that such a thought had even crossed her mind because Hercules could never be like Ryan, he wasn’t a monster, he would never seek to purposely hurt her. Even still the thought had formed and it left her muscles debating if they should still go ahead and flinch or make her fingernails sink even deeper into her own skin to stop her from attacking.

She did neither. Instead, she spoke.

“Then go!” Georgette spat venomously, releasing her hand from the clench it had on her wrist. “Go have your damn try and do everything those hags want you to do! Because apparently none of it will affect you so I’m just being the stupid one here actually giving a rats ass and worrying about how this can all just finish only fucking hurting you in the end.”

Georgette began to move now because well one, standing still never worked for her when she was angry, it always made her feel like a caged animal and two she wasn’t about to stay here when her opinions and concerns meant absolutely nothing so she needed to start looking for her purse so that she could leave.

“So be my fucking guest, Hercules!” Where the hell was that stupid purse?!

HERCULES: Hercules had no idea what this meant for him and Georgette...but he knew what it meant for him.

Did it hurt that she didn’t trust him on this? That she wasn’t going to support him? Definitely. However, he needed to do this. That was all he knew. That he needed to do this, with or without help. If he didn’t, he’d never be able to take care of Georgette the way he wanted. Their lives would always be plagued by this decision. This moment. Maybe, it wouldn’t matter in the end and Georgette would stay pissed at him, but for the first time in a long time, Hercules had hope. Which meant that he hoped that when all this was fixed, when he was fixed, Georgette would forgive him and see why he had to do it.

So, he didn’t try to stop her. Instead, he handed her the purse that she was looking for. He didn’t need to be told that was what she was doing. He’d seen her lose it a thousand times before, especially when in a huff.

Silently, he handed it off to her. There wasn’t much to say. Georgette could see the hurt on his face. He could see the hurt on hers. There was nothing for it, though.

This had to be done. It was destiny.

So, the door closed and Hercules packed his own bag. Then, he went to the only place he knew to get the gates open: to Hades’.

His wife let him inside, heavily pregnant and clearly tired. It made him nervous just looking at her. She was so fragile. He thanked her and waited awkwardly for Hades to come down the stairs. When he did, Hercules rose quickly, but carefully. Then, he explained the situation.

“You don’t have to come into the Underworld with me,” Hercules assured. “I know the way.”

With that, they set off through the forest. Unlike last time, Hercules didn’t say anything. He was quiet and determined, his jaw set. The trip was silent and felt both long and unbelievably short. It was Hades who alerted him that they had a tag-a-long, as soon as the Gates had opened. The blue flames flickered silently in the backdrop.

“Georgette?”

Hades left without preamble, telling Hercules he had about two minutes before the gates shut tight and, no, he wasn’t coming back to open them again.

“What are you doing here?” Hercules demanded as soon as Hades disappeared.

GEORGETTE: So, Georgette hadn’t exactly thought out this decision of hers to the extent that it probably should have been thought out. She just knew that once she had made it, she immediately went into action and found herself in the forest.

By no means was it a pleasant trip reaching the Gates of Hell. Georgette was not a nature girl. She did not appreciate dirt, or grass, branches, leaves, insects and disgusting creepy crawlers.

She hated this forest and it’s trees. They, after all, had taken her life from her.

Yet here she was trying very hard not to be daunted by her surroundings or think back to those painful memories this exact entrance could make her relive. Even against everything, against her better knowledge because this was a trip through the Underworld after all, here she was. Wasn’t that how it always ended though?

Georgette coming right back to Hercules.

“I’m still really upset.”

She stated because it had to be well known that her being here didn’t forfeit what she felt regarding this situation. She was still pissed and she still believed all of this was a terrible and very unfair idea.

“But I don’t want you going through hell alone.” She admitted, her voice growing soft. “I know how that feels.”

Maybe not so much literally going through actual physical Underworld hell alone, but Georgette had gone through a rape alone. She had gone through the trial of her rapist alone. The rape, the trial, both were very real. Both had been hard and both had been excruciating painful. They were her hell.

And being alone through hell, that was something she never wanted for Hercules. If he did this alone, she would be like every other person who had deserted him in his life. She wouldn’t forgive herself, so yes, she was still pissed off, but her anger wasn’t worth deserting Hercules.

“And I don’t want that for you so… that’s what I’m doing here.”

HERCULES: Despite the circumstances, Hercules laughed.

It wasn’t a loud laugh, more of a chuckle than anything, but it felt very out of place, here at the entrance to the Underworld.

He was just surprised—delighted, suddenly, by this turn of events and he couldn’t help the smile that showed on his face. How fond he felt of Georgette, as she glowered at him. He wanted to kiss her, even if she’d just said she was upset with him. And he would. He’d wait, maybe, but he would.

There was a relief, too. It meant that if she was here, Hercules wouldn’t have to be alone. If she was here, she couldn’t be too upset with him. Hercules could handle pissed off Georgette, but he couldn’t handle a Georgette that wasn’t speaking to him, a Georgette that hated him. He was plenty familiar with his girlfriend’s temper and while it was a sight to behold, as long as she was still talking to him, he wasn’t going to worry.

And, y’know, he didn’t know when that had happened. Once, Hercules would’ve worried at every fight, every annoyance that he caused her (which was a lot.) But now, he just—wanted to laugh.

He softened, though, at the next thing Georgette had said and he stepped forward. Reaching out, he placed his hands on her shoulders and drew her a step closer so that he could kiss her forehead. His hands moved to her cheeks and he smiled at her.

“Thank you. I didn’t want to do this without you.” He leaned in and kissed her once, softly. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

#bdrpgeorgette #hercette #otp: in your corner #otp: you're my safest place #i cry about hercette a lot y'all

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rough-n-randy-rando · 5 years

Text

Edd and Flow; Jitters, Junk, Fireflies

Eddward Vincent had never been on a clandestine date before. Or any date for that matter. He’d gone to Sadie Hawkins with Nazz, but it had been a pleasant outing between two friends. Nazz had met his parents, he’d met Nazz’s, pinned a corsage, danced together under the supervision of chaperones, drank punch that may or may not have been spiked. It had been a quick affair, never repeated and with no misunderstandings or hurt feelings.

As he decided on what to wear, he thought over the situation in terms of what a date classically is and found that it was beyond typical categorization. If anything, it was a rendezvous. It had all the thrill, danger and intrigue of one at least. And it was hot, but not just hot, humid at that. A romantic rendezvous in a tank-top and shorts? It would be so.

There was another point of consideration; was that all this would be? A passing… something… in the night? Is that worthwhile? Is that something to look forward to? So many questions, and nothing but a time and place to answer them. As well as an auburn-haired boy. That raised more thoughts, lewd, personal thoughts. He humored them and changed again. Messy, messy, messy.

By four in the afternoon he’d run out of things to catalogue and alphabetize; every advisory note left by his parents was read and followed; Jim and the ant colony fed and watered; any and every bit of clothes washed, folded. Now he’d resorted to an impromptu one man play in the living room, portraying both himself and a suddenly erudite and proper Kevin, replete with baseball cap. Then, a knock at the door.

Actually, it was less a knock than it was Eddy strolling in, Ed in tow. “Hey Sockhead why dontcha answer your phone?” He tracked in mud, fresh, blackened mud likely from a runoff canal near the Creek. “Ed and I found a great spot ta set up Slippery Eddy’s Super Summer Splash Park and we need ya ta draw up the plans.”

“Eddy, shoes, please!” Double-Dee sprung over the couch and dialed a command into his wristwatch, sleeker models of the cleaner bots from the café emerging from the hall closet and setting to work.

Ed swept Double-Dee in his arms and crushed the air from his lungs in a rib-cracking bear hug. “Eddy told me you’d been taken by the sewer people, to build them a radioactive claw they’d use to steal the Earth’s core!” He mimicked a gnarled claw and snapped at various objects on the end table near the couch, curling his lip and crossing his eyes in his best impression of a sewer person.

“Ed, we’ve talked about unnecessary roughness in our greetings.” Double-Dee felt the pressure around him relax.

“Sorry Double-Dee.” Ed seemed on the edge of tears, sincerely remorseful he’d slipped up and possibly disappointed his friend.

Double-Dee had a special place in his heart, and therefore his patience, for Ed, and gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s perfectly fine, Ed, just a friendly reminder. Now, if you wouldn’t mind releasing me.” Ed dropped him bodily to the floor and stood smiling.

Eddy had meanwhile helped himself to one of the pre-made sandwiches Double-Dee had spent the morning preparing for himself and was lounging on the couch, a phone in his hand. “All my missed calls and you didn’t even try to get back to me.” He seemed taken aback by something he saw on the screen and flew into a rage. “Kevin? What, he tryin ta shanghai ya ta help him with his summer school?”

Double-Dee scrambled over the couch and tried his best to get his phone back, Eddy keeping him at bay with his leg. “My correspondence with other people is my own business, Eddy; so unless you’re listed as the account holder or contribute directly to my service bill, I’d appreciate you returning my property to me and pondering your own social interactions, thank you very…” he kicked off the arm-rest of the couch and managed to spring past Eddy’s leg, grabbing ahold of his phone as he sailed off towards a crash landing, “much!”

He made a hard landing against the opposite wall, knocking over a waist-high bookshelf. Ed scrambled over and helped unbury Double-Dee, lifting him up to his feet and dusting him off.

“Are you okay, Double-Dee?”

“Yes, thank you, Ed… you didn’t take off your shoes?”

Sure enough, there was a long, thick trail of viscous, blackened mud from the entryway to him, the cleaner bots chugging along frustratedly.

“Forget his shoes, what’s Shovelchin tryin ta rope ya into, huh, huh?”

Double-Dee held the phone to his chest and turned his nose up at Eddy, moving off towards the kitchen. “None of your ‘beezewax’ to borrow from your own crude vocabulary.” He glanced at the screen and saw he had indeed received a message from a number identifying itself as Kevin.

Hey Double-Dork, it’s Kev, don’t forget.

He felt a bolt of lighting shoot up his spine and crash back down in the pit of his stomach, flooding him with warmth and energy, his heart racing. Now how to go about responding. He wanted to send a long-heartfelt message filled with his excitement and anticipation, the concern and worry that had been consuming him ever since their brief intimacy the day prior. Then he thought of how Kevin, up till now the smoothest of operators when it came to romance, would take this outpouring of deep emotions, especially in such an early, fragile state of their… relationship.

“Hello, Double-Dee, ya have a stroke or somethin?” Eddy had finished his sandwich, wiping his hands on the couch, and was looking at him expectantly.

“Eddy, how would you respond to someone who had asked you out on a date, wishing to maintain a level of distance and mask your enthusiasm?” He looked to Eddy, who had a crestfallen look on his face.

“Oh come on, not Boxhead…”

“The identity of the individual is irrelevant, but the question stands.”

“Is Double-Dee in love, Eddy?” Ed again closed the distance between himself and Edd, wrapping him up in a cautious embrace.

“I wouldn’t call it love, Ed, but someone has piqued my interest, yes.” Double-Dee relished the affection afforded to him by his gregarious friend and returned the hug.

“What you have to do is beat up their enemy like in Ultra Space Adventure number six-hundred and four, where Tim Cobalt, space explorer, fought for the love of an alien with a thousand mouths by defeating the hairy mutants from X-O-Nine!” Again, sudden silence, pleasant smile.

“I’ll take it under consideration, Ed.”

“I say leave him hangin, never text back, move away, save yourself the headache.”

“Come now, Eddy; could it be your prior antagonistic encounters with Kevin have soured your opinion of him?”

“Kevin’s a jerk, always will be a jerk, ask Nazz.”

Double-Dee bit his lip and tapped Ed to release him. He moved into the living room and sat in his father’s recliner, looking off to a spot on the carpet. “I admit, Kevin’s romantic record to this point has been less than stellar. But could it be that that’s a part of adolescence? After all, Kevin and Nazz remain close friends, despite their history.”

Eddy looked Double-Dee over and shook his head, standing to leave. “Double-Dee ya could marry a hornet’s nest and I’d ask when the reception is…” he picked at his teeth with the nail of his pinky-finger and examined what he’d scraped loose, “but Kevin?” He tutted and walked towards the door. “Just don’t ask me ta be nice ta him.” He paused and said over his shoulder, “Keep it loose, say when and where, then be there, keep him guessing.”

“Remember Double-Dee; defeating your love’s enemies is the key to the heart.” Sudden silence. Pleasant smile.

“Ed, your advice, as always, is illuminating.”

“Wait for me, Eddy!” Ed raced after Eddy and practically bulldozed him out the door, the pair alternatingly laughing and arguing as they made their way back to whatever spot they’d staked out.

Save for the cleaning machines lethargically scrubbing away at the last of the Ed’s mess, the house was quiet. Double-Dee looked at his screen again and considered a response. Then, another text popped onto the screen.

Don’t flake on me or I’ll pound ya.

It seemed Kevin was also in the throes of pre-date jitters. He thought on it for a moment, then replied.

Eight o’clock, the park.

And that was that.

The Park was one of the oldest in Peach Creek, planned back when the cul de sac and other suburb outcroppings were still just blueprints and promises. It was simple, a few play structures, slides and swings, as well as a sandbox. Ringed by tall, old trees that were always last on the town’s list of landscaping priorities, a canopy had formed in some places, and in others crowded saplings and bushes fought for space. Otherwise, it was a straight shot through the park from one end to the other, wide open views from the street that anyone could take in unobstructed while passing by.

These observations were obvious to Double-Dee as he sat at the picnic table, glancing at his phone every few seconds. 7:55pm. He’d arrived promptly at 7:30 to allow himself the opportunity to settle in, seem casual, build an alibi should anyone from the neighborhood or beyond happen upon him and subject him to interrogation. He’d imagined a million and one scenarios, his stories becoming more and more fluid as the questioning increased in severity. By 7:45 his resolve had faltered a bit, though he quickly reminded himself that it was Kevin who’d set the time and Kevin who’d sent a reminder, as well as a, hopefully, playful threat.

The summer sun set late. It would be almost 9 by the time it fully set beyond the western mountains, casting everything into deep, dark night. Now, at 8pm, there was more than enough light to show someone mounted on a restored, candy-red ’92 Honda VT600 Shadow roll up to the curb beyond the park’s entrance.

The mystery rider cut the engine and sat back in the seat, arms crossed, the tinted, visored helmet clearly looking towards him, “You comin or what?”

Double-Dee felt both underdressed and intimidated. Whereas he’d resolved to wear cargo shorts and a simple band tee, Kevin was clad in black denim with a weathered, adobe-colored leather jacket. He needed to retain some of the rehearsed blasé attitude he’d constructed.

“I’d accuse you of showing off but I’m afraid I don’t know enough about motorcycles or the necessary safety gear to offer any real criticism.” Humorous, self-effacing, humble.

“Shut up Dork, put this on.” The careful waltz of clever witticisms was shattered, and Kevin lobbed a small backpack at Double-Dee. Inside was an equally weathered chartreuse leather jacket and an older, Italian motorcycle helmet.

“First of all, Mr. Barr, don’t speak to me in that way.” Double-Dee let the bag drop to his feet and crossed his arms. “I’ll admit I’m positively disposed towards you but this disposition does not mean I’ll forgive disrespect.”

Kevin kept his helmet visor down, a black-eyed cyclops that stared him down wordlessly. He triggered the kickstand switch and let the bike settle at a cant, dismounting and walking straight up to the other boy. He stood a full head taller, and he still didn’t raise the visor.

“Well?” Gasoline fumes mingled with the aseptic bite of a cologne that had given up the ghost long ago. The closeness of the two as well as Kevin’s facelessness revived the sense of enticing danger Double-Dee had dismissed as romantic fantasy.

Kevin flipped up the visor and was smiling. “You’re cute when ya want to act all tough, Mr. Vincent.” He scooped the bag up and handed it daintily to Double-Dee. “Pretty please, with sugar on top, put this on.”

“Very well, but only because you asked so nicely.”

Soon, they were off, riding for about an hour to the west, halfway between Peach Creek and Lemon Brook. Suburbs gave way to orchards, the new moon providing more than enough light to navigate the many backroads Kevin detoured. Here and there you’d spot farmhouses; lonely old things that looked abandoned, only the motion-activated security lights close to the road reminding you that people lived there.

Even with earplugs, the sound of the bike’s engine was monstrously loud, the vibration of the road rattling Double-Dee numb. He’d kept his eyes clamped shut for much of the ride, but as Kevin slowed to take the winding roads to their unknown destination, he’d allowed himself to peek out into the night, take in the sights. In the milky-white brilliance of the new moon, details were discernable; old collapsed fence posts with depression-era barbed wire; an actual honest-to-god phone booth at a crossroads that still had a functioning light on the inside; an abandoned tractor that had been consumed by wild grass and weeds, a thicket forming around it; acres upon acres of anything and everything that grew on trees.

Though named for the citrus fruit, no lemons grew in or around Lemon Brook. The main employer of the community, Staple and Citrus Cargo Company, named the town after the first product they’d shipped in upon opening in 1890: Lemons for the Navy from California. Rail-lines, weigh stations, turntables, fuel and water depots cross-hatched and dotted the county. This area surrounding the town was known as the badlands, beginning and ending at an old district boundary no one bothered to review.

They finally came to a halt at the beginning of a gravel road that disappeared through a cluster of beech trees. Kevin killed the engine and sat for a moment, then turned his helmeted head.

“Hey, uh, you can let go now.”

Double-Dee did so, the blood rushing back into his arms, hands, fingers. “My apologies, Kevin, I’m not used to this mode of travel.”

“It’s fine, Nazz hated riding this thing too.”

Double-Dee dismounted shakily, his legs waking up. “I’m glad to know how other people you’ve dated enjoyed the experience.”

“Come on, Double-Dee, I didn’t me-” Kevin saw that the other boy was politely stifling a laugh. “Good one, you really made me feel like a jerk.”

“I can’t make you feel what you already suspect.” Eddward allowed himself the laugh and removed the helmet, his beanie pressed flat underneath.

“I’ve never seen someone get helmet HAT before.” Kevin dismounted as well and walked the bike off the side of the road into a stand of already dying paper birches. Double-Dee was waiting for him as he reemerged, and Kevin thought on how ridiculous he looked in the oversized jacket, shorts, and chipped-white helmet, old-school driving goggles sitting crookedly across the brow. “You look like you shop at the Salvation Army.”

Double-Dee considered what he was wearing and shrugged, “Half of this outfit was provided by you, so I’d say it reveals more about your own stylistic choices than mine.”

“Fair enough, come on, we’re almost there.”

They set off along the gravel road and entered the stand of beeches, Double-Dee taking note of the many bottles and cans strewn about the ground.

“I take it this is a popular place for revelry, shame they’re so inconsiderate of the local flora.”

Kevin stooped and came back up with one of the cans in hand. It was so faded, half-covered in a slimy, mossy sludge that he couldn’t make out any kind of date or design. He let it fall back among its brothers and wiped off the sludge on a tree as he walked by. “Used to be, all the upperclassmen would come here.”

“We’re the upperclassmen now.”

Kevin chuckled, “Yeah, we’re in the big leagues.”

They exited the stand of trees and stood at the edge of a field of tall grass about two acres long by two acres wide. Rising out of the grass here and there were old hulks of various vehicles. They were rusted husks without engines, without seats, skeletons of skeletons. In the center of the field there rose a jagged mound of earth and steel. Bicycles, shopping carts, weathervanes, melted and crushed together into a chaotic mass half-buried by an abortive burial attempt. The earth that had been heaped upon it had, over time, solidified and compacted, and now was topped by thin, white, fluted flowers.

What gave this mound shape was the most surprising specimen of all; beneath the wreckage and dirt sat an old tank, its turret turned slightly to the right, main gun held aloft by a sturdy-looking support brace bolted to the chassis.

Kevin took Double-Dee’s hand and squeezed it. “Welcome to the ThunderDome.”

Double-Dee giggled and took the lead, pulling Kevin along as he walked towards the mound. “I’d be interested to see what species of flower that is, as well as the model of the …”

They’d only taken a few steps in when the fireflies, as though they had fallen asleep on the job, rose and began their display. The two teens were surrounded by a flurry of light, a chain reaction rippling outward across the field, legions upon legions of the luminescent insects taking flight. The new moon was obscured by a blanket of clouds that threatened rain and thunder, the night deepening across the land. The fireflies were transformed from points of light to living stars, meteors caught in the atmosphere of this private universe, celestial bodies that collided and danced all around them.

“It’s beautiful, it’s like experiencing the moment after the Big Bang!”

Kevin looked at Double-Dee and was struck by the awe, the wonder in his eyes. As those wide orbs of glacial blue diamonds took in the beauty of the moment, reflections of fireflies that passed close by blinked in and out of existence like sparks from a flint. For a moment Kevin was party to Double-Dee’s immense knowledge, imagination, and understanding, and in that moment he felt afraid. He was one of the most intelligent people Kevin had ever met, an inscrutable mind of unknowable potential. What could he offer him? What could he give to him that he couldn’t create himself, better, at ten times the scale with ten times the power?

Double-Dee moved in close and laid his head on Kevin’s chest. “I could live in this moment for the rest of my life.”

At a loss for a response, but feeling victorious, he held him close and said nothing.

READ THE FULL STORY IN SEQUENCE HERE

#kevedd #fanfiction #slashfiction #ship #fandom #yaoi #gay #romance #teen

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daemongal · 5 years

Text

The Stranger

OK, so this was another thing that came up in conversation one day that I completely forgot about until today: Nero masturbating with his demon wings! Because who wouldn’t out of curiosity, I mean come on! This may have also inadvertently developed into another episode of the “Nero has a demon in his head” saga because I enjoyed writing it so much the first time!

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Masturbation

Word count: 1.5k

__________

“Right big guy, enough drivin’ for today. I ain’t delivering you to Kyrie lookin like shit. Get a shower to get all that demon stank off of ya then get some shut eye. Lord knows ya need it.” Nero grumbled incoherently from the passenger seat as the van drove to a hault.

He didn’t want to admit that Nico was completely sound in her logic however the thought of a hot shower after the stress of the day's events had him brimming with excitement. He placed V- no, Vergil’s book on the dashboard of the van, staring at his now human outstretched arm.

“This shit’s so surreal.” He twisted his hand at the wrist, observing it from all angles and flexing his fingers one at a time.

“That shit’s creepy is what it is.” Nero rolled his eyes, tutting as he stood himself up, stretching his arms and back with a satisfied groan. “Ya must be part lizard or somethin’. S’not normal to just grow limbs back like that ya know? And to top it all off, ya got two more of the damn things!”

He summoned his spectral wings with a flash of blue light, stretching them in front of his vision, mimicking his earlier motions with his own hand. Nico reached a hand towards the feathered appendages before he quickly withdrew them.

“No touching! They still feel... kind weird.”

“Aww, scared you’ll like it too much huh?” Nero flushed red before storming past her towards the back of the van.

“Oh come on, don’t be weird about it. I just don’t want your grubby hands all over them. I never know where they’ve been.”

“Aww hun, you wouldn’t wanna know; trust me on that.” Nero groaned, face burning as he deliberately bashed his forehead against the shower room door.

“Anywho, I’m gonna grab some fresh air. Ya’ll got the damn place stinkin’ like a behemoth’s asshole.” Nice unceremoniously slammed the door to the van behind her as Nero let out a sigh of relief.

“Thank Sparda.” He took off his coat and haphazardly threw it onto the sofa, followed by his boots. He checked to make sure all of the curtains were drawn before opening the door and stepping behind it and undressing down to his underwear, not wanting to open himself up to further teasing if Nico decided to barge back in unannounced.

He grabbed his towel and stepped into the cubicle closing the door behind him, flicking on the taps and stepping out of his underwear. He stood under the cold water, allowing it to heat up slowly over his skin as he leaned against the wall, watching the grime run from his body down the drain. It was cathartic, watching the last physical memories of the day washing away as the knot wound so tightly in his chest began to loosen.

The water was warm against his aching muscles now, the steam slowly starting to build, enveloping him comfortably. He ran his hands through his hair, groaning in pleasure as the clumps of blood and viscera unknotted themselves from the strands. He scrubbed himself thoroughly, covering every inch of skin to make sure there were no remnants of battle left visible.

He chuckled in his throat as he felt his cock stir between his legs, his slowly relaxing mind now giving way to other thoughts. He looked to his right hand and smiled.

“It’s definitely been a while, eh bud? Guess it wouldn’t hurt to take some me time.” He exhaled, running his hand slowly down his body, allowing his mind to wander to Kyrie; to the feel of her thin gentle fingers caressing his skin, the feeling of her warmth and her soft skin, the scent of her perfume. He pictured her face twisted in pleasure, pleasure he would be able to bring her with this very hand.

By the time his fingers trailed low he was already hard, days of frustration clouded by stress and exhaustion finally making themselves known as his breath hitched at the first stroke of his length. So used to using his left hand, the sensations of using his right felt somewhat alien, as if it were another's hand currently wrapped around him.

He felt his cock pulsate at the thought, trying his best to imagine thin, soft fingers in place of his own as he began pumping himself steadily, teasing his head with his thumb as he went. In a moment of coherent thought he paused, considering an idea, the sort of which would normally never have crossed his mind if his brain wasn’t so fogged with need.

He smirked before summoning his translucent wings once more, pulling his hand from his length to rest against the shower wall. He reached a claw in front of his vision, carefully flexing the fingers and shaking it at the wrist to test its range of movement.

“What happens between us, stays between us.” He muttered to the claw as if it were capable of understanding. With a sigh he let the claw tentatively run down his chest, the sharpness leaving light trails on his pale skin.

The claws themselves didn’t have the same feeling of touch as normal hands; it was more pressure he could feel. He was aware when they were making contact with an object but he couldn’t necessarily tell what the object was.

His hairs stood on end with the contact, as if the claws themselves were emitting a sort of static electricity. It was a pleasant tingle that merely heightened his skins sensitivity. He gasped as the claw wrapped around his cock sending a shock of pleasure up his spine.

“Fuck.” He groaned through gritted teeth as the claw gripped and began leisurely stroking. His breaths were coming out heavier as steam began filling the room. He held his weight on his arms against the wall as his legs started to shake, the jolts of pleasure from each stroke causing shockwaves through his muscles.

He leaned his head forward and closed his eyes, barely conscious of the fact that he was essentially stroking himself, the feeling so distant that it felt as if it were someone else. His hips began to stutter as he thrust into each stroke, the grip on his cock becoming tighter with each passing second.

He brought his hand to his mouth to stifle the moans he was unable to hold in. He was close, chasing release at each thrust, biting into his hand as a claw brushed against the tip. His knees nearly buckled under him as he came hard at the unexpected stimulation, hips jerking as he painted the wall with his cum, tasting the blood in his mouth from the hand his teeth were buried in.

After what felt like an impossibly long time, the claw retreated from his length as he began to come down from his high, panting heavily into his already healed hand.

“Me please, you like, yes?”

Nero’s body tensed at the voice, spinning on the spot, on guard to any potential attack. His eyes darted around the cubicle, but he was alone. He knew he didn’t imagine it, the tinny voice that sounded so much like his own as he was fighting at the top of the Qliphoth in the form of a demon.

“What the fuck?” He thought out loud, listening for any further words.

“We are one. Awakened in you I was, now I speak. I wish to please. You are not fighting, but I try.” The voice was in his own head, Nero realised with a slack jaw, his eyes darting around the walls as if searching for a response, realising he was talking to his own demon.

“So... I err, didn’t realise you could talk. I thought you were just... a shape that I could make myself.”

“Yes; I make you change, I make you strong. But I also have voice, can speak to you.”

“See these are the moments I’d be jumping for fucking joy if my damn half demon family didn’t decide to fuck off to the demon world. I’m sure they’d be able to enlighten me on this shit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose before reaching to turn off the shower.

“Look, not to be a dick or anything but I’m trying to have a relaxing evening before seeing Kyrie again tomorrow and I’d be a lot happier if we could have this little heart-to-heart or whatever you wanna call it later. My heads already fucked and I don’t need you up there scrambling it even more.” There was a moments pause as he shook his head and reached for his towel.

“Yes, if you pleased by this, I return later.” Nero sighed once more as the blue wings dissipated from his back, silence filling his mind once more. He scrubbed his body dry before putting his underwear back on. He listened through the door, pleased at the lack of sound or movement on the other side.

“Nico was right, this shit is fucked up.”

______

So yeah... that was a thing :’)

Also, just in case anyone was wondering to get the title I literally had to google “that thing where you sit on your hand until its numb then jerk off” because I knew there was a name for it but I couldn’t remember from my teenage days.

(I apologise if this is a little messy. It’s late and I wanted to post this before bed)

[Masterlist]

[Support me on Ko-fi <3]

#devil may cry #dmc #nero #fanfiction #solo!nero #nico #my fic #self love #lemon #spicy

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themoonandotherslikeit · 5 years

Text

Something More Than What I Had- Part Six

Part Six- Revelations

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” Revelations 21:4

“Hello, Sweetheart.”

Castiel looked up from the Bible and met Dean’s eyes from across the room. “Hello, Dean,” he said carefully.

“Smelled coffee. Why you up so early? Bad dreams?”

Cas pressed his lips together. Dean looked different in the dark, in the shadow. Castiel couldn’t make out his face, it was obscured by shadow, the only light coming from the lamp next to the typewriter. Castiel was bathed in warm light from the lamp. Dean had to see the Bible in his hands.

They stared at each other in the darkness, waiting for each other to make a move. Dean stepped out of the hallway into the light. His expression was soft, his lips turned into a disappointed frown. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out, Cas.”

Castiel tried to choose his words carefully. He knew the situation was fragile at best. He had been around killers before, and if he could’ve guessed the way his encounter would go when faced with the biggest murderer of his career, the situation in front of him wouldn’t have even made the list. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip; it was dry and cracked from the winter air. “And how did you want me to find out, if I can ask?”

“Cas, of course you can ask,” Dean said, stepping toward him. “I wanted you to find out when you were ready to know. You aren’t ready, Cas, you have to know that. I wanted you to see the gift that I was giving you, that I was giving everyone. I’m ridding the world of evil. The men were a plague, and I eradicated them.”

“Dean… you killed them.”

“I brought them to justice.”

Castiel pressed his lips together. “That isn’t justice. The law decides justice.”

“You were so heartbroken, Sweetheart, I just couldn’t sit back and watch. You don’t do that when you love someone. When you love someone you fight for them.” He was rambling, his eyes squinting, but he was still unbelievably calm. It was as if he couldn’t find the words. “I saw you that day outside of the courthouse after Azazel’s trial. You did everything right and it didn’t matter. The system is broken. The angels are gone, Detective. They’re gone.” He was getting emotional, his ears welling up with tears.

Castiel stepped closer to Dean. In that moment they weren’t enemies, they were just two men who were tangled together moments before. His stomach ached. He loved Dean. “What do you mean, Dean?”

“I saw what they did with my mom. She didn’t get any justice. I couldn’t let that happen, not again. Not to anyone else.” Dean closed the space between them, taking Cas’ hands in his own. The reality of the situation snapped around Castiel in an instant. He recoiled from Dean’s touch. “You’re mine, Detective. I wouldn’t ever let anythin’ happen to you. I’d never hurt you. You know that, right?”

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. “Does Sam know?”

“He wasn’t ready, either. He is just a kid. It’s my job to protect him. I’m his brother.”

“I have to take you in,” Castiel said suddenly. If Dean wasn’t going to hurt him, there would be no need for cuffs, no need to make a scene. “Will you come willingly?”

“Right,” Dean said with a nod. “You have to bring in Duma today. I knew you’d want to go in early. I had plans, ya know, about when this finally happened. I’d make you breakfast in bed, and you’d relax for fuckin’ once. Better be glad I think you’ll look dignified with wrinkles, Detective.”

Castiel frowned deeply. “Dean, I’m not going to bring in Duma. She didn’t do it. I need to bring you in.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to call Sam?”

“Why would I call Sammy?”

“To tell him. He will be surprised when we come to the precinct, won’t he?”

“I go there all the time,” Dean Winchester said as he batted his beautiful green eyes.

“Dean, get dressed,” Castiel said carefully. He couldn’t tell the game that Dean was playing. Dean seemed like he wasn’t all there. He looked confused. He looked different. Castiel reached one of his arms over to the other and gave himself a quick, but hard pinch. It hurt. He wasn’t dreaming. Was Dean in denial? Was he having a breakdown? Maybe he was hoping for an insanity plea, which, from where Castiel was sitting, was a real possibility.

“Sure, Cas. You sure you don’t want another round before work? Heard it’s good for your health.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“I think we’ve run out of time.”

“Damn, you’re right. I should’ve woken up earlier.” He leaned forward and placed a kiss on Castiel’s cheek, causing chills to run down Cas’ spine. “I’ll meet you back out here?”

“Sure,” Castiel said carefully. His body was stiff, and he was painfully aware that he was in his underwear and a shirt of Dean’s. He needed to change. His stomach tugged like he was going to lose it. He had to be ready to go when Dean came out of the bedroom, in case he got violent.

He turned and scanned the room, finding a discarded pair of jeans by the couch. He picked them up and slid inside, getting into his shoes and coat. He holstered his gun in the back of his pants, all the while listening for Dean’s bedroom window to open, in case he tried to make a run for it. “Let me grab a coffee, and we can head out,” Dean said, shrugging into his coat. “Damn.” He paused, looking Castiel over with a smile. “Sweetheart, you look so sexy in my clothes.”

“We don’t have time for coffee, Dean,” Castiel said, wishing he had his handcuffs with him. Dean’s behavior had his discomfort increasing rapidly.

“I got it, Cranky,” Dean teased, as he put the lid on his mug. “You aren’t fun in the mornin’.”

They left the apartment in the snow and walked toward the precinct. If Dean was talking, Castiel didn’t hear any of it. All he could hear was the soft footsteps in the snow. He could feel Dean’s presence like a moth to a flame. He was shining so bright that Castiel imagined he would be able to find him even in the darkness. He could feel Dean next to him, and the cold metal of his weapon in the back of his pants. He was grateful that the precinct was so close.

It was getting closer to six o’clock in the morning, and the evening shift was still staring at the papers on their desks trying desperately to stay awake. No one noticed Castiel and Dean walk through the front doors. He led Dean to the interrogation room, his fingers curling around the door frame. “Have a seat in here.”

“Sure thing,” Dean said, eyeing the room. “Are we going to do a sexy detective criminal role play?”

Castiel pursed his lips. “Just wait here, Dean.”

“Hey, you good?” Dean touched Castiel’s shoulder.

“Just get in the fucking room, Winchester!”

“Fuck, okay.” Dean's hands flew back. “I read ya loud and clear, buddy.” He looked a little hurt. The door clicked shut behind him, and Castiel turned to the trash can next to him and vomited.

Dean was the killer. Dean was the killer. Dean was the killer.

He could still see the letter typed and stuck in the typewriter, the pages missing from the Bible.... he could hear the Hello, Sweetheart . He threw up again. His arms wrapped around the trash can as if he was hugging his father's leg, begging for attention.

“Woah, did you drink too much? Because if you went out celebrating without me we are going to have words...”

“Charlie?” He looked up, tears streaming down his face. “What are you doing here?”

“Captain Singer is getting in early today, and I have to be where he is.” She crouched down next to him, pressing her palm to his forehead. “Fuck, Cas, you okay? No offense, but you look like shit.”

Castiel shook his head. “I’m not okay.”

“What happened?” She asked, rubbing his back gently.

“I...I can’t,” he gasped. It was too much.

“Shh, hey. You can. Look at me.”

He did.

“You’re the strongest guy I know. You look danger in the face daily and tell it, come at me. That’s strength. Did you and Dean...”

He didn’t hear her question, because at the sound of Dean’s name he was vomiting again. “Can you go to my apartment?” He asked her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I need clothes.”

“You got it.” Charlie nodded quickly. “Let me go get Sam... he can...”

“No. I’ll get him in a little while,” Castiel said frantically. He wasn’t ready. He needed more time.

“Okay.” Charlie nodded, grabbing him a water bottle from her bag. “Take this. Sam’s in the break room. He was asleep when I got here. He looks pretty damn cute sleeping, for such a tall guy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I wake him,” Castiel said with a pained smile.

“I’ll be back soon.” She pressed a kiss to the top of his head and ran off.

He stopped throwing up after what felt like forever. He stood up and walked to the two-way mirror. Dean Winchester sat with his hands flat on the table and stared directly at Castiel as if he could see him through the glass. He could’ve sworn that Dean wasn’t even blinking. He felt rotten in his own skin, with the smell of Deans sheets sticking to him, his sex still fresh on Cas’ skin. He wanted to strip naked and scrub until he bled.

Castiel felt like a fucking idiot. He wasn’t cut out to be a cop. He should’ve been a botanist or maybe a janitor, something where lives weren’t on the line, at the very least. He hadn’t known it was Dean when he was right under Castiel’s nose the whole time. In his bed. If he’d had anything left inside of him to vomit, he would have. He was empty, in the most complete sense of the word. He pressed his palm to the glass.

“The people who walk in darkness will see a great light. For those who live in a land of deep darkness, a light will shine. Isaiah 9:2,” Dean murmured, continuing to stare impossibly at Castiel through the glass. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. Psalm 23:4.”

“What are you doing?” Castiel asked no one in particular.

“Detective, I know you’re out there,” Dean said slowly, carefully. He clasped his hands. “It’s rude to leave a guy hangin’.”

Castiel closed his eyes.

“The grace of the Lord Jesus be with God’s people. Amen. Revelation 22:21. There is no grace with God’s people anymore, Detective. I think you know that. Give me a pen, Cas, and you’ll see. I sound better on paper.”

His ears almost perked up at the sound of his name. When he opened his eyes, Dean was in front of him, his hand touching Castiel’s through the glass. “I never lied to you, man. Don’t leave me alone in here.”

Castiel pressed his lips together as Dean rested his forehead against the glass, and his forearm above it. He looked handsome with his eyes almost gray from exhaustion, and his hair still tussled from bed. His chin and cheeks were covered with prickles of hair since he hadn’t had time to shave. He looked disheveled in the way that a man always does after he is ravished.

“You really love me, Detective?” Dean asked, as he hovered over Castiel, his lips only a breath away.

“I do.”

Cas felt Dean’s fingers run along his arm, and then Dean tangled their fingers together, pinning Cas’ arm above his head. “I never thought someone like you could… could love someone like me.”

“Someone like you?”

“Yeah.”

“It was always you,” Castiel whispered, leaning up to kiss him again.

“It was always you,” Dean echoed Castiel’s thought. “I saw you in that bar, and I hit on you. I don’t make a habit of hittin’ on men in clubs when I’m supposed to be helpin’ Sammy, but I think I knew. You’ve got a way about ya, buddy.”

Castiel was captured by Dean’s words. The gruff of his voice was still against Castiel’s throat in his mind, harder, faster, fuck I love you. He didn’t realize he was walking until he pushed open the door to the interrogation room and was face to face with Dean again.

“Cas,” he breathed with a relieved exhale, like he was a balloon deflating after a child’s birthday party. “I didn’t think..”

“Do you know why you’re here, Dean?”

He needed to get another detective. It wasn’t appropriate for him to work the case any longer, but he couldn’t make himself move.

“You want to talk to me about the murders,” Dean said slowly, carefully.

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you.” He nodded.

“Do you want to contact your lawyer? You have the right to one.”

“I don’t want a lawyer, Cas. I wasn’t lyin’ in my letter when I told you that if you forgive me that I will make it to heaven. You’re the only person I need to convince. Maybe once you hear it, you won’t want to keep up with this. Maybe we can just go back home and get into bed. I know that’s where you’d rather be, Sweetheart.”

I don’t think I can forgive you. “Have a seat.”

Dean walked back to his seat and lowered himself in it. “What do you want to know?”

“I want you to tell me the truth. Did you kill Fergus Crowley?”

“He got what he deserved, Detective. Did you know that he was going to continue? I talked to Krystal. He was going to kidnap more women to sell and if they fought back he’d kill them. Do you really think he didn’t deserve what happened to him?”

“That wasn’t what I asked you, Dean.”

“I just want you to understand.”

“My opinion means nothing here. There is a right way and a wrong way,” Cas’ voice was strained, his throat stinging from the vomit, scratchy and pained, but nothing hurt more than how it felt to look at Dean.

“According to who?”

Castiel gripped the back of his chair. He knew he should sit, but his legs were buzzing. “I didn’t even know you were religious.”

“I’m not.”

“The Bible verses? The angel wings? If you’re not religious…”

“God doesn’t give two shits about us anymore, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t right. If his soldiers aren’t doing their job to punish the wicked, then we have to. Mom said angels were watchin’ over us, but no one was watchin’ over her. I wish there’d been someone like me out there when she was killed.”

“Did you kill Fergus Crowley?”

“If I answer that you will leave. I’ve seen Law and Order.” He tilted his head to the side inquisitively.

“You want to talk to me,” Castiel said slowly, as the reality settled in. It was Dean’s game, and he had no real stakes in that could let him win. No matter what Dean had to say, Castiel would lose. They both would.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Why can’t you just let this be over?

“I always wanna talk to you.” He gave one of those big grins that made the skin around his eyes crinkle, the kind of grin that got Cas’ heart racing, but it was racing for a different reason this time.

“Say whatever you want to say, Dean.”

“You don’t want to talk to me?” Dean asked, his bottom lip poking out in a pout. “I thought what we had was more than all the bullshit, Detective. I thought it was real.”

“Detective Novak, I have your clothes.” Charlie's voice came over the intercom in the interrogation room.

“I’ll be back,” he said sharply before exiting the room, feeling Dean’s eyes on his back the entire walk to the door.

“What the fuck?” Charlie asked, her eyes wide in shock. She held Castiel’s clothes folded in her arms. “Please tell me that you are doing some kind of roleplay in there, and not what it looks like.”

Castiel looked around and grabbed her hand, pulling her into the single stall bathroom. “Lock the door,” he instructed. She followed the instructions and he peeled off Dean’s sweatshirt.

“Jesus, Cas,” she commented on the hickies covering his chest, stomach, and thighs when he wiggled out of his jeans. He shot her a look, and she put up her hands in surrender. “Sorry, explain.”

He slid into his gray slacks and buttoned up the deep blue shirt that she picked for him. “He did it.” His voice sounded completely defeated and forgein even to his own ears.

“What do you mean?”

“He is the killer, Charlie. He murdered those people.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t think it, I know it. I was at his place, and I found a typed up letter just like the ones I received at the crime scenes. A Bible with the pages ripped out... he did it. It was Dean.”

“Shit. Does Sam know?”

“Dean said he didn’t tell him.”

“But did you?”

“I haven’t had the chance.”

“But you’re interrogating him? You’ve arrested him without his brother knowing? Without your partner knowing?” She handed him a polka dot tie.

He wrapped it around his neck and began to tie it. “I haven’t arrested him. He seems… off.”

“Yeah, he’s a serial killer, Cas!” She exclaimed, completely perplexed.

“I told him I loved him last night,” he admitted quickly, needing to purge it from his system.

Charlie dropped Castiel’s belt. It clattered to the floor. “You did what?”

“I was walking to his apartment, and I just couldn’t stop myself. I looked at him and fuck.” Castiel turned and sent his fist flying into the stone wall. He cried out in pain, but the sting of broken skin on his knuckles centered him just enough to get it together. “I’m in love with him.”

“Oh, Cas,” Charlie murmured, reaching for his hands, but she refrained from taking them. “Are you sure it’s him? Maybe there's an explanation.”

“Trust me, Charlie, I wish there were,” he said solemnly, bent down, picked up his belt, sliding it through the loops, and clasped it. “I need to talk to the Rookie. I’ve been stupid. I want the answers, but I don’t think I’m going to get the ones I want. I don’t think there’s any closure for me.”

“I really thought he was the one,” Charlie said, looking down. “I feel like I pushed you two together…”

“I thought he was the one, too,” Castiel admitted out loud for the first time. “But that doesn’t matter. He is just another criminal that I have to put away. I did say I was married to the job, makes sense that I would be attracted to a psychopath.” He unlocked the bathroom door, his back to Charlie. “I’m going to talk to the Rookie.”

“Cas, you can take a second,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “No one would blame you.”

“I don’t need a second,” he said, shaking his head. “All I’ve wanted was to find the son of a bitch who did this, and now I’ve got him. There’s no sense in letting emotions get in the way.” Castiel opened the door and pushed out into the precinct, running immediately into Sam Winchester.

The Rookie was pouring himself some coffee, his eyes were red rimmed and his hair stuck up in the back from where he was sleeping peacefully on the couch in the break room. The sleeves on his plaid dress shirt were pushed up to his elbows. He didn’t know. Castiel was about to ruin his life forever.

“Hey, Novak, good morning.” Sam glanced at his watch. “Damn, you’re here early. I thought I’d have a little more time to get presentable… but I should’ve known you’d be here earlier than we agreed.”

“Rookie we need to talk.”

Sam looked up from his cup of coffee with a frown. “Sure, Cas. What’s up?” He grabbed another coffee cup and poured it for his partner.

Castiel took it, even though the coffee was old, and even though he was jittery as all hell already. He took a sip out of habit.

“Jesus, are you okay?” Sam asked, gesturing to the broken skin on Castiel’s knuckles.

“Let’s go somewhere private to talk.”

Sam ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, okay. Lead the way.” They walked back to the evidence locker. Castiel unlocked the door and clicked on the light. The single fluorescent light buzzed angrily like a bee trapped behind glass. “You’re freaking me out, Cas. What’s going on?”

“We were wrong.”

“That’s pretty cryptic, wrong about what?”

“Duma isn’t the Angel Killer.” It wasn’t an official name, but it was a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

“What? Did you find something else? I’ve been researching all night. She looks good for it…”

“Yeah, I found something,” Castiel said in almost a hiss through his clenched jaw. He felt sick. His stomach gnawed against the coffee he was suckling. It was better to keep it busy. Maybe he was just yearning to give himself something in his stomach to vomit up. He felt like he was going down a hill too fast, like he couldn’t quite get a grip on it. It was that empty, weightless nausea.

“What was it? You weren’t supposed to be working, but I’ll let it slide if you got a lead,” Sam teased gently, trying to relieve some of the palpable tension in the air.

“I wasn’t working. I just came across the information.”

“What was the information, Cas? Are you feeling okay? You look a little green…”

Castiel pressed his lips together and looked up, his eyes meeting Sams. They weren’t as green as Dean’s, with flecks of gold in the center, but still familiar. The kid would never get past it. How could he? Dean was his older brother, his pillar, his light in the darkness. How was he going to feel knowing that the man he held in such high regard was a murderer? Probably just as bad as Castiel was, knowing that he slept with the criminal he’d been hunting. The man both of them loved was the man they were hunting. “It’s Dean,” he said suddenly, but quietly. His voice was barely a whisper, a withdrawal of smoke.

“What?” Sam laughed, shaking his head. “What’s Dean? I know you guys are dating, Cas. You don’t have to be weird about it.”

“That isn’t what I’m saying, Sam.”

“Okay, then what?”

“It’s Dean. Dean is the Angel Killer.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean it’s Dean? That’s crazy. I’ve never heard him quote scripture in my life. He doesn’t even own a Bible.”

“He does, Sam,” Castiel said carefully. “I’m sorry. I don’t want it to be true, trust me.”

“This isn’t funny, Cas. Is Dean hiding somewhere? He loves to pull pranks. Come on out asshole!” Sam looked around the corner of the shelves in the center of the room. They were alone.

“It’s just us, Sam.”

“Then you’re recording this,” he said stubbornly. “I can’t believe you let him rope you into this. You’re supposed to be the serious one.”

“I assure you that this is no prank. I’m sorry, kid. I saw his Bible on his writing desk… it was missing all the pages we found at the crime scenes. He was writing the letter when I showed up at your place.”

Sam stared past Castiel, and it was a moment before he spoke again. “Did you arrest him?” He asked quietly.

“He’s here in the interrogation room. I wanted to talk to him first. I didn’t want it to be true.”

“What did he say? Did he say he did it?”

“He said this wasn’t how he wanted me to find out about it.”

“But he didn’t say that he stabbed them? How do you know for sure? This is all circumstantial…”

“Sam,” Castiel reached out and put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. Sam flinched, but didn’t move away. “I’ve done this for a long time. He did it. We need an official confession. I can get him to say it, but I thought you’d want to talk to him before he’s booked officially. I owe you that much.”

“You’re wrong.” Sam’s voice broke. “You have to be.”

Castiel smiled weakly at his young partner.

When he started at the Sixty-Sixth Precinct, the older detectives always said that there would be one case that would make his career, one case that would change him forever. He had that case when he was a rookie himself, he fucked up and someone ended up dead. Looking at Sam, he knew that this was the kids case. Something was breaking inside the young detective right in front of Castiel’s eyes. There was no going back from a case like that.

“He’s my brother.”

“I know, kid.”

“He… fuck. Can I talk to him?”

Castiel nodded and opened the door to the evidence locker and let Sam out. He walked to the interrogation room, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He was frozen in place. “You’re wrong,” Sam said again, to no one in particular. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself to turn the knob with trembling fingers.

“Maybe,” Castiel said finally, even though it was a lie. The kid needed a push, and he had two hands capable of giving that to him.

Sam turned away from his partner, opening the door to enter the interrogation room alone.

“Sammy?” Dean said, standing up from sitting on the edge of the table. “I was expecting Cas.”

“Is it true?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it true?”

“Sam, I…”

“Don’t, Dean,” Sam snapped, his eyes brimming with tears. “Don’t fucking lie to me. Don’t play like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Dean sighed. “Sammy, you don’t remember this, but every night before we fell asleep mom would tell us that angels were watchin’ over us. It was a comfort, ya know? How could anything be bad when there are angels watchin’ over us?”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were just a baby.” Dean scratched the back of his neck with a fond smile that quickly melted away. “Where was the angel that was supposed to be watchin’ over her? She is dead, Sam. I saw her burnin’. Do you know what that does to a kid? I still smell her burnin’. I still hear her screamin’ under the roar of the flames. I still see her when I close my eyes… I blamed the police for a long time. Since they didn’t find who did it.” He sighed and shook his head. “But it wasn’t until you became an officer that I realized they’re angels, too.”

Dean walked to his brother and held his face in between his palms. “You’re a fuckin’ angel, Sammy. You watch over people the best you can, but your hands are tied. You can’t do God's work because the system is failing. You can’t find justice, but me… my hands aren’t tied, Sammy. I am not held back by anythin’, not by a badge or a boss. I can help. Doesn’t that mean I have an obligation? I can fix it. I have to fix it.”

Sam stepped away from his brother, his forehead wrinkling. “Not that way, Dean. You aren’t God. It isn’t up to you or me to decide people’s fate. You aren’t God.”

Dean’s hands fell to his sides as Sam moved away from his touch.

“I know that, Sam. There is no God. Not anymore.” There was a darkness behind Dean’s eyes. He looked empty, almost as if he was looking into the flames right then.

“You killed them.” Sam swallowed hard.

“The Lord saw how great the wickedness of the human race had become on the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time. The Lord regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and his heart was deeply troubled. Genesis 6:5-6. God even knew that people were wicked, Sam. I am doin’ what He would want. I’m gettin’ justice.”

“Dean, God is good. The Bible says not to kill…”

“But Sammy, I saw you. You were so upset about the girl, Amara, about findin’ her killer. Then when I saw Crowley walk free; I couldn’t just let that happen. I couldn’t sit back while he hurt other girls,” Dean said almost desperately, walking toward his brother.

“We were taught right and wrong, Dean. Our whole life… you have to know that this was wrong.”

“I was taught right and wrong, Sammy. Mom taught me. She read me the Bible before bed. So when I lost her I learned it, more and more, a little at a time, and the more I learned, the more I knew.”

“Mom wouldn’t have wanted this, Dean. You can’t pretend you’re doing this for her… or for me.” Sam frowned, staring at his brother. It was like parts of Dean were peeling away right in front of him, and Sam knew, as desperately as he wanted Castiel to be wrong, that Dean did it.

“But Cas, man. He is the one. I knew that when I saw him. It was just gonna be Crowley, but then I saw him when Azazel walked. I already knew Azazel was bad. I invited him to the poker game, but when I saw Cas’ face… I knew he had to die. Do you know how terrifyin’ that is, Sammy? To see someone and to know that they are pure evil? You and Cas are good. I’m not. I never have been, but you are both my family. It is my job to get rid of the people in your way. To get rid of the evil. To find justice.”

“This doesn’t make any sense. It can’t be you,” Sam said, his hands shaking. His eyes flickered to his brother. “The morphine. Fuck. I should’ve known. It’s what they used at the hospital with Dad. Did you steal it?”

“He killed her, Sammy. You and I both know that.”

“We don’t, Dean. We never did. He was a bastard… but he was our father.”

“He deserved what he got.”

Sam peeled his eyes away from the gaze that his brother had him stuck in. “You killed him, too?”

“Detective Winchester, get out of there now, boy! Don’t make me tell you twice,” Captain Singer’s voice boomed over the intercom.

Sam stood up a little straighter and locked eyes with his brother one last time before he turned and exited the room. He could feel Dean’s eyes on his back even as the door shut.

“You two, my office, now, ” Captain Singer said through clenched teeth.

Castiel and Sam exchanged a look before following him into the cramped office.

“Shut the goddamn door.”

Sam let the door click shut and braced for the skinning they’d get. He was used to it, growing up being John’s son, but there was something different behind their Captain’s eyes.

“You two idgits better start talkin’, and you better make it real fuckin’ good, ya hear me? You better have a real good explanation for why you’ve got that boy in my interrogation room with ya.” He crossed his arms and watched Sam and Castiel staring back at him blankly. They didn’t have the words, at least not the ones that their Captain wanted to hear. “I’m missin’ birthdays here, boys.”

Castiel stepped forward. “It’s my fault, Captain.”

He raised a graying eyebrow. “The kid was talkin’ to him. Why?”

“When I was with Dean last night… I found some evidence linking him with the crimes of the Angel Killer.”

The Captain stood up a little straighter. “He’s a suspect?”

“He practically confessed,” Sam said through clenched teeth.

“And you two just took it into your own hands? You decided fuck the law, I’m not gonna call for backup, I’m going to interrogate him myself?”

“I don’t think we really thought it through, Cap,” Sam said like a little boy in trouble.

“Novak, did you call for backup to arrest him?”

“No, Sir.”

“So you did it yourself?”

“No, Sir.”

“What am I missin’ here?” He asked, quickly losing his patience.

“I didn’t arrest him.” Castiel picked at the skin around his thumbnail.

“You think he’s innocent?”

“...no.”

“Help me understand this, Novak. You found a criminal, believe him to have committed his crimes and didn’t arrest him?”

“It’s complicated Sir…”

“I know you’ve been havin’… relations with this man, and what you do on your own time is your own business, but if you two are right and he is a killer then you might have fucked this up. If he walks, I swear to God neither of you will ever work in this city again. Now go home while I figure out what to do with you.”

“Captain I’d like to stay… he is my brother,” Sam said weakly, still unable to truly grasp what was happening. Captain Singer looked at Sam, scratching his beard as if he was really thinking. His jaw was set, and it was pretty obvious to Sam that he was pissed. All that he knew, was that he couldn’t leave knowing what he knew. “I can answer any questions you have about him. Maybe I could be helpful.”

His captain gave a big, heavy sigh before shaking his head. “I’ll probably regret this, but you can stay, Winchester, just give me your badge and gun. If you’re here, you’re here as a civilian.”

Later that evening

“Hey,” Charlie said, lowering herself onto the stairs leading up to her apartment next to Castiel. He was sitting with his face in his hands. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling…”

He met the eyes of his friend, his own feeling bloodshot and swollen. “I found a liquor store, and I drank it,” he slurred.

“Oh my.”

“I’ve been so fucking stupid.”

“Hey, you’re not stupid,” Charlie said gently, her hand resting on his shoulder.

“I am. How did I miss this? It was right in front of my face. What kind of detective am I if I missed this?”

“None of us saw it.”

“But I fucked him. I slept next to him…”

“Sam lived with him, and he didn’t know,” she pointed out.

“The kid is a rookie. He doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”

“Right,” Charlie said, pushing her hair behind her ears. “What’s this really about? You were interrogating him outside of protocol. You’d never do that, no matter what.”

“I needed answers.”

“Bobby put Hanscum and Mills on it, they’re pro’s. They’ll get the answers.”

He shook his head. It wasn’t the same. They were good cops, but they hadn’t been on the case. They didn’t know.

“Cas,” Charlie said, treading lightly. “It’s okay to miss him, to be disappointed.”

“I’m only disappointed that I didn’t see it sooner.”

“So you could save yourself the pain?”

His head snapped to hers, his vision blurred, from the alcohol, or maybe the tears that stung his eyes. “No, to save people from being murdered. What kind of self centered person do you think I am?”

“I don’t think you’re self centered. I don’t think you’re self centered at all, actually. Not even enough to mourn for the man that you love. You should mourn, Cas. It’s okay to be devastated.”

“I’m not devastated,” Castiel snapped. She wasn’t understanding. It was all a lie, it had been from the beginning. Killers always got close to the head detective in their case. Dean managed to insert himself right in the middle of the investigation, and Cas didn’t even notice. Charlie would never understand how sick it made him. “He killed three men. Four, most likely. His father’s death was suspicious… I’m just...” He sighed in frustration, curling his hands into fists. “I’m not sad. I’m pissed off. I’m furious.”

“Okay,” she said, a slight irritation in her voice. “It’s okay to be furious. He lied to you.”

“He is a murderer, Charlie! That’s it! I let him get close to me, distract me so he could kill people! I didn’t notice, and I will never be able to forgive myself for that. End of story.” He stood up, wiped his sweaty palms on his gray slacks and pushed out into the white, snow speckled evening air, leaving his badge and gun on the steps behind him.

Six months later

“This is a collect call from the New York State Prison, will you accept these charges?”

“No.” Click.

It had been six months since Dean Winchester was arrested. Six months since he confessed to all crimes. Three counts of premeditated murder.

It had been six months since Castiel hopped in a cab and took it to New Jersey to visit his brother Gabriel. He was hiding. Hiding from his job, from his partner, from New York, from the guilt, but most of all he was hiding from Dean.

It had been six months since he’d had a nightmare. The only demon he had left to face was himself.

He received one letter a week since Dean was incarcerated. He didn’t open any of them. Dean called and called, but Castiel never agreed to speak with him.

Since the weather had warmed up, Castiel was gardening out behind Gabriel’s house. Despite living in the city his whole life, he was doing surprisingly well. He stared at his blank phone screen that read Call Ended, his hands still dirty from planting his tomato seeds.

“Want a beer?” Gabe called out from the house.

“Okay,” Castiel said, wiping the dirt from his palms onto his jeans.

His brother popped the caps off the beers and met Castiel halfway, his arm extended. “He call again?”

“Why do you ask?” Castiel asked, putting the bottle to his lips.

“You always get that look when he calls.”

Cas sighed against his beer bottle. “He won’t take a hint.”

“Why don’t you block the phone number?”

Why didn’t he? “I don’t know.” He looked down the neck of the beer, as if the answer was in the foam.

“Maybe you should go see him. Seems like you didn’t get any closure.”

“It feels pretty final to me,” Castiel said, tipping the bottle back to his lips again.

“Come on, little brother. You don’t have to lie to me. Have you talked to Sam?”

“On and off.”

Gabriel scratched his chin. “What does he have to say?”

“I told him I didn’t want to talk about Dean,” he sighed. “Bobby gave him a pass, and he’s on probation, but he’s still working in homicide. He says he misses his partner, but I told him I’m done.”

“You can work at the comedy club with me.” Gabe wiggled his eyebrows. “I’m working on an act right now that includes some close-up magic.”

“As exciting as that is,” Castiel said through clenched teeth, “I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.”

“You just planted a vegetable. You’ll be here for awhile.”

“Tomatoes are fruit,” Castiel deadpanned.

“Right.” Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where will you go if you leave?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never taken a vacation in my life.”

“Oh trust me, I know.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “My point is… I don’t know where I will go. Anywhere else.”

“You can stay however long you need to, brother.”

“I know. I appreciate it,” Cas said with a sigh. The condensation on the outside of the bottle mixed with the dirt on his hands. He reached down and wiped them on his jeans, leaving muddy, smeared handprints on his thighs. “I don’t mean to be such a burden.”

“Are you kidding me? My house has never been this clean.”

“I believe that.” He laughed dryly.

Gabriel took a swig of his beer. “Charlie’s been calling for you. Are you going to ignore her forever? I think she will come out here eventually if you do. I can only keep her at bay for so long.”

“Did you tell her I was here?”

“She knows.”

“How?” Castiel narrowed his eyes at his older brother.

Gabriel shrugged.

“You told her.”

“She is hard to say no to.”

“You were bested by a girl.”

“Hey,” Gabriel snapped. “She is more than a girl. She’s inhuman.”

Cas snickered. “Don’t I know it,” he sighed again and stared at the bubbles dissipating inside of his bottle.

“You’re not going to feel like this forever. I know sometimes things feel pretty endless, but I’ve got it on good authority that eventually the bad shit stops.”

“I don’t know how to make it stop.”

Gabriel reached into his back pocket and pulled out a letter addressed to Detective Castiel Novak, and he placed the letter in Cas’ hand. “I’d start with closure. Shut the door and lock it, man, it’s the only way you’ll be able to really move on.”

Castiel took the letter and stared at the familiar scrawl on the front of the envelope. It would match two dozen more that sat in a drawer in his bedroom, all unopened. He looked at the letter like an old friend, a temptation, a kiss stolen under the moonlight. He looked at it like it was from the Dean that he thought he knew, instead of a stranger in an orange jumpsuit. He looked at it like it was from a man that he loved in a different life, instead of the one that he loved in this one. Instead of the one that broke him.

Two weeks later

Castiel Novak didn’t dream while he slept. His unconscious mind was filled with a buzzing emptiness. He almost missed the nightmares.

“No! Enough, Gabe! You can’t hide him anymore. This isn’t healthy. He loves that goddamn job, and he’s a New Yorker! He hasn’t set foot in the city in half a year.”

“I know that,” Gabriel said with a huff. “I’ve tried everything! I even put temporary purple hair dye in his shampoo a few months ago and he didn’t care, Charlie. Do you get that? I prank him, I make jokes, and he just doesn’t fucking notice. He is a shell. This guy fucked him up.”

“You’re protective of him. I know, because I am too. He’s my person. Let me help him.”

“He doesn’t want help.”

“Respectfully, I don’t give two shits what he wants. Now move out of my way, or I’ll make you move .”

It was no real surprise to Castiel when Charlie busted into his room not more than a minute later. She walked right to his bed and scooted in next to him, pulling his quilt over their heads. They laid on their sides, face to face, nose to nose. “Hey,” she breathed.

“I knew you’d come eventually.”

“Are you going to make this hard or easy?”

“What do you think?”

“Hard it is.” She smiled widely. “Sweetie, I know you’re in a bad place.”

“That’s an understatement,” he admitted quietly. It was hard to lie when it was just Charlie.

“You miss him.”

“No.”

She gave him a look, her eyebrow raised and her head tilting more into the pillow like fucking really?

He sucked in his breath, feeling a sob threatening to creep up his throat before he nodded twice. “It feels really fucked up to miss him.”

“We can’t help who we love, Cas. You’re a gay man, so I know you know that already.” Charlie wrapped an arm around him. “I can’t let you do this to yourself.”

“Do what?”

“Punish yourself. You’ve done enough, honey. You’ve done enough.”

Castiel didn’t believe her. He couldn’t, but there was something in her tone that was painfully maternal. Something that made his heart ache. “He is sending me letters.”

“What do they say?”

“I have no idea. I can’t open them. They’re all in a drawer haunting me.”

“Do you want to read them?”

“No,” he said, and it felt like the biggest lie he’d ever told.

“Then why are you keeping them?” There was that look again.

“Because… if they’re there then I can always change my mind and read them.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

Charlie put her hands on either side of Castiel’s cheeks and looked into his eyes. “For being honest with me for the first time in six months.” She forced a smile. “I’m mad at him, too. Especially for what he did to you and the kid.”

“The seasoned detectives always talked about the one case that they could never get past. I was certain that it was Benny.” His voice broke from saying the name out loud after so many years. “I didn’t think anything could be worse than that, but this . It has to be this, Charlie. I’m never getting past this. I am a ruined man.”

“You aren’t ruined. You’re hurt, but we always keep fighting, Cas. It’s what we do. You get knocked down, and you get up again.”

“Do not say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“I won’t say it, but only because I think you get the picture.” She moved her hands from his face and propped herself up so she was looking down at him. “What if Harry Potter decided that he couldn’t fight Voldemort because he was just Harry? No matter how many times that you are knocked down you have to get back up. It’s up to you, and fuck it, it’s up to me, too.”

“I don’t understand that reference,” he said with a desperate frustration.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I know, Cassy, okay? It’s just the sentiment. I’m just saying, get back up, Rocky. You’ve gotta keep going. You’ve gotta try again, or you’ll never survive this.”

Castiel ran his tongue along his bottom lip, wetting it, before he let out a shaky sigh. “Okay.”

“Great,” she said, brightly. “Now get up, take a shower and brush your goddamn teeth because your breath is disgusting.” She laughed, poking his nose. “It’s time, Cassy.”

“I know it is,” he agreed, sitting up.

Charlie hopped out of his bed and walked to his window, opening up the curtains. “We have to get you the hell out of Jersey, Novak, I’m serious. This is where joy comes to die.”

“Don’t tell that to Gabe, he sells joy for a living.”

Charlie laughed outright. “You clearly haven’t seen his show if you think he’s selling joy.”

“Touché.”

Later that afternoon

“Are you ready?” Charlie turned to Castiel in the backseat of the cab.

“No.”

She took his hand in hers. “You can do this, and afterwards we can get really, really drunk.”

“I’ll take you up on that one,” Cas said sadly, squeezing her hand. “I hate you for making me do this.”

“That’s okay. You can hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” he said, wrapping her in a hug. “Thank you for making me get up.”

“I was worried that you’d get bedsores.” He could feel her grin widely against his shoulder.

“We wouldn’t want that.”

“You’re much too pretty for bedsores,” Charlie said pushing his too-long-hair out of his eyes. He was well overdue for a haircut.

Castiel leaned forward and placed a kiss on her cheek. “You’re pretty, too.”

“Quit trying to romance me, Novak. I’m not into all of that.”

“Likewise.” Castiel laughed for a moment, before it stifled into a sigh. “I suppose I should go in.”

“You are racking up the cab fare.”

“Subtly does not become you, Charlotte.”

“I brought a book. I’ll wait outside for you,” Charlie said, pushing him gently toward the door of the cab.

“Alright, alright. I’m going.” He shut the door behind him, and walked the long walkway to the front of the jail. He signed in. He was searched and scanned.

He didn’t want to go, but somewhere deep inside of him he knew that it was the only way. He knew, if he couldn’t read Dean’s words, that seeing him could make a difference. It had to, because in the previous six months nothing had helped pull him out of the grief hole that he’d been buried in.

The inside of the prison was gray and hollow like the emptiness within his own chest. He could hear the beat of his heart like the sound of a knock on a door. It echoed through him like the voices over the intercom inside of the prison.

“Follow me,” the guard said, leading Castiel to the visiting area. He gestured to the seat at the far end.

“Thank you,” Castiel said quietly before settling into his chair. One of the legs on the chair was uneven. He was leaning slightly to the left and every time he shifted his weight the leg clicked back down onto the tile floor. He stared through the fingerprinted glass and wondered when it had been cleaned last.

He was so distracted by the fingerprints of the longing that he didn’t see Dean approach, and suddenly he was there. He was handcuffed, and while Castiel could admit that he used to imagine Dean in handcuffs, it wasn’t like this. It wasn’t while he was in a gray pair of scrubs behind a fingerprinted glass.

Dean was smiling, and he looked like he’d lost weight. Castiel could make out the point in his cheekbones and his jaw was more defined. He looked tired, with darkening half moons under his sparkling green eyes. His freckles looked less frequent across his cheekbones, and Castiel wondered if he had imagined the night sky across his boyfriend’s face, or if perhaps they’d truly faded like dying stars. Perhaps he’d been inside, out of the sun all of these months.

Dean reached for the phone and tapped it, causing Castiel to almost jump out of his skin. He glanced at the phone. Was he really going to do it? He thought back to the dozens of letters in his drawer taunting him and picked up the receiver.

“Hello, Detective.”

“I’m not a detective anymore,” Castiel said flatly, his stomach flipping at the rough sound of Dean’s voice.

Dean seemed to scoot in to be closer to Castiel, even though there was a table and smudged glass between them. “Why not?”

“It wasn’t for me.”

His forehead wrinkled in confusion. “But you loved that job. You were good at it.”

“Not good enough.”

“You were always good enough.”

They sat in silence, Castiel’s eyes flickering down to his lap.

Dean cleared his throat. “You look good, Cas.” He smiled, changing the subject. “Very handsome.”

Castiel stared at him. He didn’t know what to say. He felt like he was standing next to his body looking down at some sad sack. He wouldn’t be Liz Kendall pining after a serial killer. He knew what Dean did and no amount of flattery could erase those facts.

“They said after the trial I may be able to move to a place with a view. A real view.” Dean smiled widely. “Maybe I could get some writing done… but ya know, I wouldn’t want to go too far from Sammy... from you.”

“It’s not like you have much of a say.”

“Right, but I just meant… If I had a choice I wouldn’t try to leave you. I wouldn’t give up on us.”

“Us?” Castiel shifted in his seat, the leg clacked against the tile. “There is no us, Dean.”

“Sure there is,” Dean said, blinking rapidly. “You love me and you’re… you’re family. Me, you, and Sammy are family. You don’t just walk out on family. Sure, it isn’t ideal, but all relationships have problems, right?”

Castiel’s upper lip twitched. “This isn’t a problem, Dean.”

“It isn’t? Fuck… that’s a relief to hear…”

He put up a hand to quiet Dean before he spun out of control. “It isn’t a problem because there’s no us anymore. I can’t just overlook this. It’s over.”

“I… shit.” Dean’s fingers ran through his hair, his eyes flickering away from Castiel’s. “I didn’t mean for that to happen, man.”

Castiel’s heart leapt around his chest like a rabbit in a cage. It banged against his rib cage. He rubbed his sternum, trying to calm it. “And what did you mean to happen, Dean?”

“Did you read my letters?”

Castiel shook his head. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Cas, you have to read them. Please.” His eyes were back up, his palm pressing against the glass.

“No, Dean.”

“I thought you liked the whole bad boy thing,” Dean joked with a glint in his eye and a shit eating smirk planted on his lips.

“No,” Castiel said, clenching his fists. “I don’t.”

“Cas, come on. I’m not some kind of psycho. You know me.”

“I don’t know you!” Castiel snapped. “I don’t know you at all. I thought I loved you, but I was wrong. I was in love with who I wanted you to be. You’re a murderer, and I would never be with someone who is capable of that.”

Dean looked like he’d been hit, he recoiled, his face twisting in hurt. His hand fell back to his lap with a soft thud. “You’re wrong. What we have is real…”

“It was never real, Dean. How could it be? Everything was a lie.”

“Not everything.”

“That’s what it looks like from where I’m sitting.” Castiel swallowed and the leg of the chair scratched angrily against the tile. “Stop calling me. Stop writing me. Just let me go, Dean. If you care like you say you do, you’ll let me go.”

Dean sucked in his breath like he took a blow to the gut. As Castiel turned to hang up the phone that connected them, Dean reached for the glass again. He pressed his fingers against it longingly. “Just read the letters, Cas. I explained everything… if you read them you’ll see.”

Castiel shook his head. “I burned them,” he said as he hung up the phone.

Two hours later

“This should be illegal.” Castiel complained into his whiskey glass.

“You love it,” Charlie said, holding her microphone in her hand as she tried to sing along with the words on the screen. “Kiss me like you wanna be loved.”

“Just because you’re a redhead does not mean it’s required to sing Ed Sheeran.”

“Us gingers have to stick together, Cas, don’t you know? Shit, you got me off the words umm…”

He laughed, a good hearty laugh and damn did it feel good.

Being a queer man meant that Castiel Novak was not unfamiliar with pain. It lived inside him from the moment he realized he was different, to the moment he moved out of his house when his father couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. The pain grew less and less the older he got. When he became a detective, the pain was almost gone completely. He no longer carried shame like an extra weight around his middle. He was comfortable with himself.

The pain had returned, but it was no longer his sexuality that plagued him. It was Dean. The way his heart ached for Dean was crippling. The moment he came back to New York, him crept back through the cracks of Cas’ carefully built walls. Seeing him at the jail didn’t help matters, and all he could hope for was that time was on his side. That the theory that all wounds eventually healed would be true in his case.

In the meantime, he had whiskey, and a bartender with a heavy pour.

He jingled his empty glass and the bartender filled his glass. “You’re a good one, Tom. Don’t ever forget that,” he slurred gently.

The bartender winked at him, making his cheeks warm up. Nope. No more relationships for you Castiel. You are celibate. You’re a nun. A priest. You’re not hooking up with anyone else! Plus, he isn’t Dean. He tried to shake off that thought as Charlie abandoned the rest of her song and waltzed up to him.

“The stage wasn’t ready for me.”

“Sure wasn’t.”

“Charlie! Hey!” A familiar voice said.

Castiel turned slowly, the whiskey in his veins weighing him down like wet clothes. He didn’t need to turn to know who the voice belonged to, Cas could pick the kid out of a line up blindfolded. “Sam.”

“Cas, hey.”

Eileen waved, her arm through Sam’s, and his eyes flickered to her as he signed, nice to see you.

Same , she signed back with a smile, are you okay?

Castiel shrugged lightly at her before his looked back to Sam. He’d spoken to him in the last six months, but seeing him was a completely different situation. The whiskey that had settled in Cas’ stomach began to churn angrily. “Rookie, want a drink?”

“He’s not a Rookie anymore, Cas,” Charlie said with a grin as she sipped on her rum and coke. “Isn’t that right? Our little boy is all grown up!”

The kids plaid shirt was tucked in, wrinkle free, but his sleeves were still pushed up to his elbows. He looked fucking exhausted, his hair a new level of shaggy, and his jaw sported a thickening beard. He wasn't sure what he expected to see, part of him thought that time stood still while he was at Gabriels, but the biggest part of him expected to come back to a completely new city. The pieces of his life that stuck and the pieces that changed were almost so minuscule and random that it left him completely unsettled.

“I guess not,” Castiel said. “A lot has changed since I’ve been away.”

“Are you coming back to work?” Sam asked, shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. His body language was discomfort, but his eyes told Cas a completely different story. They were hazel, but glinting a strong green against the green plaid in his shirt, and they were focused. It had to be a trait that he’d picked up from his brother. Dean was the only person that Castiel had ever known to hold such an intense gaze, that sometimes he thought that Dean could see right through his skin and into his soul.

“I don’t think so, kid,” he said, gripping his whiskey glass like it’d keep him from drowning.

“We miss you around there.”

“It’s just not right, not anymore,” Castiel said before taking another swig of his drink. The room was seconds from spinning, so he closed his eyes and tried to center himself. That didn’t last long, though. It was hard to hide from Dean when his face popped up every time Castiel closed his eyes. Hello, Detective. Chills ran up his spine, and he sat down his glass.

“The trial is next week,” Sam said, running his fingers along the outside of his beer bottle, rubbing designs into the bottle’s sweat. “Are you going?” Sam looked at Castiel like he wanted something from him, like he expected Cas to fix every problem that he had with one simple yes .

Castiel sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The kid was looking at Cas, like he was sure that he looked at Dean. “I don’t think so, Sam.”

“It would mean a lot to me to have some familiar faces, and I know it’d mean a lot to my brother.”

Castiel stood up from his seat and swayed a little, his hand catching the bar top to steady himself. His eyes settled on Sam’s chin, Dean’s chin . The way that he talked, tilting his head to the side, was all Dean, and Cas couldn’t fucking take it anymore. “Sam, I don’t mean to be rude, but he doesn’t deserve me being there.”

“Sweetie, don’t,” Charlie said, putting her hand out, but he gestured it away, his eyes not leaving Sam’s.

“He broke my fucking heart,” he said, his voice cracking, breaking into pieces. “I shouldn’t have to go and watch that. It’ll hurt too much. It’ll hurt too fucking much.”

One month later

“Where are you going?” Gabriel asked, leaning against the door frame to Castiel’s room.

Cas looked up at his brother from his open suitcase. “I need to start over, Gabriel.”

“I know.” He nodded with understanding in his eyes. Gabe was always such a child, but he was there when Castiel needed him. There wasn't much else that he could ask for in a brother.

“I think I’m going to California. I just need to be somewhere else. A different coast, a different time zone.”

“You can’t run forever.”

“I’m not running,” he sighed, laying down the shirt that he was folding. “At least I’m not trying to. I want to be happy again someday, and I don’t think I can do that here. There’s too much history. It’s smothering.”

“I understand.” Gabriel nodded and moved from the door, opening his arms for a hug.

Cas met his brother’s embrace, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing tightly. “Thank you for everything.”

“Thanks for leaving me with a goddamned garden. Don’t be mad if you come back and they’re all dead,” Gabriel said, giving him a squeeze before releasing him. “Don’t be a stranger. You have my number.”

“I do,” Castiel agreed with a nod.

“Alright, well I have a rehearsal for the show tonight. We have to go through light and sound queues. Will you be gone tonight?”

“I think so.”

“Are you going by the trial on your way out? They’re determining the verdict today, right?”

“Are they?” Castiel asked dumbly. “I hadn’t realized.”

“Hm.” Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong. Call me when you land.”

“I will,” he said, watching his brother leave.

He walked to his desk and pulled out his papers and his pens. He wasn’t an extravagant man, and he didn’t own many things, but the things he owned were his. He’d lost enough, and he wasn't prepared to part with anything else, no matter how small.

He opened up his last desk drawer and stared at the pile of white envelopes. Detective Castiel Novak. He sucked in his breath and pulled them out. Writing love letters long hand always sounded so romantic, but staring at the letters seemed like something else altogether. It felt daunting, heavy. He closed his eyes and pressed the letters to his chest like a hug. Dean. His mind called out like it was second nature, and he lowered himself down to a seated position on the end of the bed. He stared at the letters, willing his x-ray vision to absorb the information without making his hands rip the envelopes open to truly expose their secrets. Once they were open there was no going back.

Fuck it.

He tore open the one on the top, his heartbeat racing at the sound of paper ripping and his finger running along the inside of the envelope. He pulled out the page and unfolded it.

Dear Detective Novak,

Hey, Cas. I’ve been staring at this page for an hour trying to decide what to say. What could I say that would make a difference? I don’t have that answer, but I know I’ve always been more articulate on the page, so I will take what I can get. I’ve made a mistake, Sweetheart. I fucked up. I let my impulses get the best of me. The same way as when I kissed you back in the alley. I knew it was right, in my gut, so I did it.

It was the best kiss of my life. I thought I got high off that kiss. That kiss changed me. You changed me, even though I’m sure you won’t believe that. I know what I look like to you, I just want you to understand… life is full of disappointments. Dads who drink way too much and beat you stupid for wearing a pair of pink panties, even though a girl dared you to do it, and Moms who die. They burn alive and no one bothers to find the answers. The bad guys get away. I couldn’t let that happen to anyone else. I couldn’t let it happen to you, because you’re good, Cas. You’re better than I’d ever be. I know that because I am shitting in an open room with three other guys, and you’re out there living your life.

You deserve that life, Cas. I just hate myself for removing myself from that situation, because we could’ve had a life together, you know? The kids, a dog, the whole nine. I would’ve liked that. I’m sure you don’t believe me, but I do love you. I don’t say that shit lightly, Cas. I love you, man. You’re the one. You were always the one.

Dean

Dear Detective Novak,

Hey, Sweetheart. I got some yard time today, and I just kept thinking, damn that sky is blue just like my blue eyed angel. Looking up at the sky reminded me that I’m under the same sky that you’re under. That gave me some kind of peace, man. I never thought I could handle jail, but knowing that you’re out there helps.

I know you don’t approve of my methods, Cas, but it isn’t all bad. Krystal visited me the other day, and she thanked me for killing Crowley. I didn’t do it for the thanks, but some of those girls are going back to college and their families! That’s a win, right? We have to take all the wins we can get. I hope you aren’t too mad at me, Detective. I couldn’t stand it if I lost you forever.

But I figure nothing too bad can happen on a day where the sky is this blue. It’d just be wrong, and there’s enough wrong in this goddamn world, so I’ll take the good where I can get it. The sun on my face, sriracha ramen from the commissary, and you.

Dean

Dear Detective Novak,

So I’ve been thinking about first loves lately. I know, what a hard prison thought to have! I better not let the boys here find out that I’m made of cotton candy or I’ll be a bottom for sure, and I’ll only bottom for one guy, you hear?

Anyway, I was thinking about first loves. I always thought my first love was this dame Lisa from high school. She did cheer and yoga, and damn it if she wasn’t flexible. She was nice and funny (sorry, not trying to make you jealous. I’ll get to the point), but no matter what she had going for her, she didn’t make me feel a quarter of what I feel for you. I always thought at almost thirty I would be too old to have another first, but fuck, if there was anyone before you I don’t remember them one bit.

You light me up, baby. I promised myself I wouldn’t shit out a bunch of clichés, but you do that to me. You make them sound good. Damn it, you make everything sound good. Maybe it wasn't our time, Cas. Maybe it was fate, the fault in our stars, or maybe it was just me. Maybe I fucked it all up, but I think in another life it could be us. It will be us, because this isn’t something that just happens, you know?

This is real, Cas. It has to be.

Dean

Dear Detective Novak,

I love you with all the stars in the sky. I love you like I love pie. I didn’t say it enough, and I’ll never be able to forgive myself for that. I’d give it all up just to hear you say you love me one more time. Damn, I sound like a chick. Forget I said anything. Write me back, even just to tell me how gay this all sounds. Anything. I miss hearing from you. I miss your dry humor and your shitty attitude. I just miss you, ok?

Dean

Castiel was in the car before he knew it, his suitcase still open on the bed. He still clutched the letters in his hand for dear life as he backed out of Gabriel’s driveway and headed toward the city. Toward him. He needed answers that not even a dozen letters could give him.

Dean was a monster. No, Dean was a man, nothing more or less. Men make mistakes. Some are forgivable and some are not. Castiel didn’t grow up believing in God, despite his angelic name. Castiel meant shield of God in Hebrew, so it was no real surprise that someone desperate for justice came to fall in love with him.

Perhaps it was wrong for Castiel to love Dean at all. Perhaps that love was long gone, as he had assured Dean the last day he saw him, but how could he know for certain if he didn’t see him one last time? Gabriel talked about closure, and Castiel knew, as the space closed between himself and New York City, that he had never gotten that closure. It wasn’t about slamming the door shut on Dean Winchester. It wasn’t about seeing him in that prison and knowing that he did the things that Castiel was most afraid of, it was about another end altogether. It was about saying goodbye to Dean and his feelings for Dean. Castiel hadn’t said goodbye, and this would be his last chance. If he hadn’t missed it already.

He got out of the car blocks away from the courthouse, knowing he wouldn’t be able to find anything closer. He shoved the letters in the back pocket of his slacks, and he ran. He ran, pushing past other people on the street. He could hear his shoes smack the concrete, the scratch of the chair against the tile in the jail, Dean saying his name in the darkness, and the beat of his heart in his chest. He pushed harder. “Get out of my way!”

It felt like the end of a romantic comedy, like he was running to break up a wedding or to confess his love. Except this time, there would be no confession, no wedding, and all Castiel expected was pain. He expected it to hurt, to watch him be led away in handcuffs, but he ran toward Dean anyway.

He half expected to find himself trapped back in that endless nightmare cycle that he’d been in over and over again, only to wake up next to Dean, but there was no rain on his face, the sun was out, and the walls weren’t closing in. Reality was so much worse than his nightmares.

The streets were crowded with onlookers, with protesters, with reporters. It was bustling, even more so than the usual New York City bustle. He pushed past the people to the tape separating the walkway from the crowd. Across from him he locked eyes with Sam, Eileen, and Charlie. He could see Charlie mouth his name, yet he heard nothing but the door from the courthouse opening.

Next to him the reporters called out questions, with their recording devices stuck well over the line, obscuring Castiel’s view of Dean. It was over. There was a weight in the air. An armed officer held one of Dean’s arms handcuffed behind his back. He wore a suit, and his collar stuck out from the neck of his suit, and Castiel’s heart squeezed at the image. Sometimes, Dean seemed like such a child, and when he turned and the sunlight glinted in the green of his eye, he looked hopeful. Fuck, he looked innocent.

Dean smiled when his eyes caught Castiel’s, bright and big. His left shoulder lifted a bit as if to wave, as if he’d forgotten that he was chained. As if he’d forgotten that he and Castiel weren’t the only two men on the street. Hi, Dean mouthed with a wink. Castiel was still angry, but in that moment his stomach flipped. There was something about the wrinkles around Dean’s eyes when he smiled, they made Castiel dizzy. They made him a little hopeful, too.

It all happened so fast.

It always does, doesn’t it? The day turning to night, falling in love, dying all happen in a blink.

Dean was still grinning in a way that was stupidly beautiful, even as his eyes widened in shock. His body jolted backwards a bit, his shoulder hitting the guard to his left from the impact. He was knocked completely off his feet, and Dean was usually so steady.

A gunshot is not an unfamiliar sound to a detective in the NYPD. With the point he was at in his career, Castiel could easily tell the difference between a firework, a car backfiring, or a true gunshot. He’d shot many at the gun range, heard them in the field, and shot many rounds of his own weapon, sometimes at targets, sometimes at people. He was taught to shoot to kill, don’t give the motherfuckers a second chance to attack.

So when Castiel heard the bang echo off the buildings, he didn’t hesitate. Perhaps it was instinct, or maybe it was the way Dean’s eyes had lit up when he caught Castiel in the crowd.

Cas leaped over the tape separating them, and the guards sprang into action, raising their own weapons. He managed to push behind them and catch Dean seconds before his head hit the ground. “Fuck,” he whispered, looking up at the ex-detective.

Castiel moved his eyes from Dean’s face to his bleeding abdomen. “Oh my god.” It looked like it hit an artery. A red rush of blood, like a dam being broken.

“Shit, does it look like that scene from The Shining?” Dean asked with a dry, strained laugh.

“Shut up,” Castiel murmured, putting pressure on the wound.

“Cas I...” He gasped out in pain as Castiel applied more pressure. Maybe to help, or maybe to just get him to be fucking quiet for once.

“Just focus on not dying, okay?”

Dean nodded with a wince, as if that was going to be tough.

Castiel could feel the heat of the sun on his back as the guards moved toward the crowd.

“You don’t understand!” A woman cried out. “He is a murderer! He killed my husband… my sweet Lucas. He was… he could be a monster… but he was mine. I loved him.” Her voice seemed to come from nowhere in particular. Castiel closed his eyes.

Mrs. Azazel. Of course. Castiel would never forget his interview with her. He wondered if she had Stockholm Syndrome with how much she defended her husband against his actions towards their daughter. He felt sick. When he opened his eyes Dean was looking up at him. His face was growing more and more pale by the moment.

Dean’s blood was seeping through Castiel’s fingers. His hands were slick with it. No amount of pressure was enough. He could hear the sirens from the ambulance coming, but it wasn’t fast enough. Everything was in slow motion.

It was all so slow, but in another way it was instant.

Castiel didn’t feel the pain. It was more like a pinch, a mosquito bite against his back. Another shot rang through the air, and it sounded like his mother’s prize vase shattering into a million pieces on the tile floor. He held his position on his knee to keep Dean in place.

He always thought he would’ve made an excellent soldier. Castiel Novak was a good man in a storm.

“Somebody take her down, for God sakes!” Castiel commanded. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t an officer anymore or that he was no one's superior, his presence demanded respect wherever he went.

The crowd was a wild mass of hysterical screaming. Sobbing. But Castiel was calm. His eyes were focused on the freckles on Dean’s cheekbones alone. Suddenly he believed the theory about angel kisses causing more freckles. He could leave a thousand.

“Detective, you’re bleeding”

“I’m fine, barely grazed me. Just stay awake for me, okay? Keep your breathing steady.”

“You were shot. I got you shot.” Dean's voice was shaking. It was a rough whisper as the blood continued to pool on his abdomen. His shoulders pulled forward as he seemed to try to reach out, but his hands were still chained in place.

“You didn’t do anything. This isn’t on you,” Castiel said, forcing a smile. “I’m good. Trust me. You’re the one bleeding all over the place. You always have to be the center of attention, don’t you?”

“You know me, a real attention whore.” Dean smiled a bit, despite the blood that trickled down the corner of his mouth. “You came.”

“Don’t be inappropriate. We are in public,” Castiel said through clenched teeth. It was a poor attempt at a joke. He clutched Dean’s wound with one hand, his other under Dean’s head.

“You love it,” Dean gasped, and closed his eyes.

He did. “Hey, hey look at me.”

“Don’t gotta ask me twice,” Dean said, his voice hoarse. “I never get tired of lookin’ at ya. Those fuckin’ blue eyes.”

“It’s just you and me, Dean. Okay?” Cas said, gasping from the stinging pain that danced up through the wound on his back. His hands were shaking.

“Detective?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t cry for me, okay?” Dean asked, turning his head to place a gentle, tear-soaked kiss on the inside of Castiel’s wrist. “We always get what we deserve. I always knew it would end like this for me. I’m goin’ out like an outlaw, and you can’t cry for an outlaw, Detective,” he said, his voice barely a strained whisper.

Castiel dipped his face down to Dean’s. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he whispered before pressing his lips to Dean’s one more time. Cas kissed him slowly and deliberately, like a last confession, until the pain and the darkness overtook them both.

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