#at least she won’t be in an ugly yellow kit

[melodiousoblivionao3]

This shit HURTS but she looks so good in this kit im not going to lie

#ashley sanchez #take care of her courage fans🫶 #woso #nwsl #nc courage #at least she won’t be in an ugly yellow kit

[phoenixyfriend]

If you are doing them the soulmate fic starter 3 or 9 for rexwalker? I love all your star wars stuff so much

soulmate au prompts

3. the one where you and your soulmate have matching marks on your bodies. 9. the one where your soulmate’s last words to you are written on your body.

Featuring marginally-less-terrible Jango with more excuses than usual.

------

The Kaminoans hate soul marks.

Rex knows this from the day he knows to ask. The Nulls and Alphas don’t have any soul marks, just scars where there was once a promise. The eldest clones have records, at least, where the scientists had taken photos before beginning th surgeries, but the marks themselves are long gone.

Prime had found out about the removals and thrown a fit, raging so intensely that Nala Se had ended up intubated from the damage he’d dealt, and she hadn’t been the only one. Rex isn’t old enough to remember that, but Cody is, and he whispers the story in the dead of night more than once. Nobody likes Prime very much, except Boba, but that’s one of the few instances they can point to and say ‘he cares more than he likes to admit.’

It’s anathema on Mandalore, one brother claims, a light in his eyes that Rex hasn’t ever seen before. That’s what I heard him telling one of the aruetti trainers.

So is refusing your children so much as a name, another grouses, and the conversation dies an ugly little death. So is letting your children die just because you don’t think they’re good enough. So is turning your back from even letting them be part of your house, let alone part of your clan. Sounds like he cares more about our soul marks than he does for our lives.

Rex doesn’t know how to address that. He does get a personal visit from Prime, one day, gets asked to show his little marking to the man that is, in some ways, his father.

“Another one,” Jango Fett mutters to the trainer that came with him, the woman holding a datapad and ready to record whatever it is that they’re looking for. He passes a thumb over the marking, frowning. “A lightsaber, lit white, with pale blue halo, between a set of symbolic Jaig eyes. The eyes are dark blue, slightly desaturated. I think they’re meant to frame it like an exaggerated beskad crossguard.”

“Sir?” Rex asks.

“That makes six,” Jango says, still so quiet, and then shakes his head. “Thank you for showing me, 7567.”

“Rex,” he corrects, before he can second-guess himself. “I’m Rex.”

“Thank you, Rex.”

------

The rumors say that anyone with a lightsaber soul mark is going to have a jedi for a soulmate.

Rex isn’t sure how true that is, but he’s eager to find out.

Prime gets more erratic, more unpleasant at times and almost awkwardly nice at others. Rex meets the others who got Jedi soul marks. He’s the youngest, so far.

Jango tells them all to hide the markings, and to keep them secret. They’d already all known that much, that only batchmates should be told about soul marks. All the adults that should know already do, after all.

“Where’s your dad going?” Rex asks once, when Boba’s been handed over to Cody’s squad for looking after while Prime goes haring off on some trip that nobody gets to know about. Rex hangs out with Cody’s squad more than his own batch, it feels like, but that’s a whole thing that he’s not supposed to talk about since the late transfer to command track.

“Dunno,” Boba says, kicking his feet back and forth. “My soul mark came in. Something about it made him really angry, I think.”

Rex doesn’t ask to see it.

It’s not his place.

------

The Alpha batch is getting quieter, angrier, and end up in hushed conversations with Prime and some of the trainers so often that the rumors start up harder than before. Rex keeps his head down, because the Kaminoans get antsier when Jango does. Soul marks come up more often, and Rex gets called in to talk to the Alpha clones about his mark. He’s not supposed to, but Prime says it’s important, and Prime is in charge.

“Oh, is that all it took?” one of the Alphas sneers, and Prime shoots them a look that has Rex taking a few hasty steps back. The Alpha clone isn’t even fully grown yet, by natborn standards, but they don’t back down. “What, ready to stop being a dar’buir--”

“That’s enough,” Prime says, low and hard, and the Alpha clone rolls their eyes. “There’s a child here.”

“So now you care about that?”

Rex is escorted back to his rooms.

------

Decommissioning finally stops, for all that it requires Jango almost decapitating a Kaminoan, and someone Rex hopes he never sees again shows up.

(His memory is blurred. He’s sure the man was human, and tall. Elderly enough to have white hair, probably? A... there was fabric that swished when he turned, something dramatic, but...)

(He is not the only one that cannot remember.)

It takes years for anything else to come of it all... at least where the clones can see.

------

Rex is fully grown, as far as clones go. His aging is supposed to slow down to ‘natborn normal’ now, because he’s reached his full height and most of his brainpower, and he’s officially old enough to fight on the field if the war starts tomorrow.

It might.

“Hey, look up.”

Rex listens, and looks, and sees a natborn with Nala Se, pale skinned and with reddish hair, soaked to the bone. They wear robes, brown and heavy-looking. Even as he watches, another natborn jogs up from behind, also sodden and pale, but with darker hair that sticks up despite the water. A third joins them, a tad slower and more controlled; this one wears all white, and they--maybe she?-- are slight and small and poised in a way that Rex thinks might be how a natborn leader carries themselves, if they aren’t a soldier.

They pass on through the walkway, showing emotions that the Kaminoans can’t read and the clones absolutely can. None of it is... good.

“Shit,” someone mutters. “That was a Jedi.”

“Venn--”

“What if they don’t want us?”

------

Rex is called to Prime’s rooms.

He tries not to look at the wide eyes of the brothers he’s been gossiping with, just stands and pulls on his full kit. He hesitates at his bucket, but then pops it on and marches to what might be his doom. It’s probably not.

He hopes it’s not.

He knocks, and is let in by Boba, and sits down on the couch when Prime tells him to. He removes his helmet when asked. Boba hops up onto the couch between Rex and his father, and leans in against Rex’s side.

There’s a list on the table, one he recognizes, quickly writing out all the paired elements on the Jedi-Clone soul marks. Nobody who isn’t already involved in the project would know it. He spots the ‘yellow tickets’ that Bly got tattooed on his face recently, the ones he won’t claim are or aren’t related to his mark. He spots his own listing of Jaig eyes.

“Prime?”

His... progenitor, maybe, in this situation, looks at him, and holds up a hand. “You saw the list. You can guess why Rex is here.”

Oh. Prime’s using his name without prompting. That’s nice.

“I can’t read it,” the younger Jedi says, with something that might be a pout. Rex wants  to roll his eyes, but his helmet is on the table. People would see.

“It’s in Mando’a,” the elder tells him, voice low, and then glances between Rex and the younger Jedi. “Fett, how did you know which one to call? I can guess some things, but--”

“I have a good eye. The hilts are all different. Only one matches.”

“I see.”

Rex fidgets, and tries not to wonder at... at... oh. The younger Jedi’s lightsaber hilt does match Rex’s soul mark.

Boba notices when Rex starts picking at his glove, pressing a finger right to the mark on his wrist, and frowns up at him. He grabs Rex’s hand to still it, and tries to ask a question with his eyebrows. He is mostly unsuccessful.

“Anakin,” the elder Jedi says. Rex still doesn’t know his name. “Your hand, please?”

“Why?”

“...you’ll understand in a minute,” the Jedi says, long-suffering in the way of the trainers who dealt with the youngest cadets. “Your hand. No, the other one.”

“Why do you need my hand?”

“Reasons, Anakin. You there, ah... Rex, was it?”

“Yessir.”

The Jedi flinches. “Right. I suppose I’ll have to get used to that... right, Rex, can you come here? I imagine you know what it is that I’m looking to compare.”

Rex has been taught to listen to Jedi, but he has no idea who he’s supposed to listen to here. The older Jedi is probably in charge, but Rex hasn’t been assigned to anyone yet, so isn’t Prime still technically the closest thing he has to a CO?

He glances at Prime, who just gestures for Rex to go ahead with it.

Rex pulls off a glove, pulls back his sleeve, and bares the symbol on his wrist for inspection.

The younger Jedi’s face morphs from confused irritation to surprise, and then... something Rex doesn’t want to analyze too closely. He’s not sure if it’s wonder or horror. He wasn’t aware the expressions could look so similar.

The Jedi--Anakin--pulls back his own sleeve, moves his wrist to Rex’s and watches as the marks glow faintly from the proximity.

“Looks like Fett was right,” the elder Jedi mutters. He doesn’t sound happy. He looks at the other natborn, the one Rex is pretty sure is a woman, and raises an eyebrow.

She shakes her head, eyes closed.

“You said there were others?” the elder Jedi prompts, and Prime nods. “We are no more open about our marks than most, but I can spot one, maybe two, that I can guess at. I’d need to see the actual markings to confirm, of course, and I imagine that wouldn’t be something anyone would be happy with.”

“The rest can happen naturally,” Prime dismisses. “This was just proof.”

“Not just proof, I hope,” the Jedi mutters. “I’m.. I have to call the Council.”

Rex sees the panic in Anakin’s face, and is seized by the urge to do something, anything, to fix it.

“Obi-Wan, you can’t let them--”

“Nobody’s going to separate you,” the elder Jedi says. Obi-Wan, apparently. “And there’s no ‘let,’ Anakin, they outrank me. Significantly. Right now, I’m concerned about the implications of this war, of multiple of these cloned soldiers that have been indoctrinated to fight for and serve the Jedi having soulmates among us, especially given that I have no idea how recently our wartime protocols on such things were updated. There is an entire army that is supposedly in our name, ordered by a man ten years dead.”

“Count Dooku is involved,” Prime says, dark and satisfied and petty. “Calling himself Darth Tyrannus. The Kaminoans mostly believe he is an isolated and reclusive Jedi Master that serves as their contact when Sifo-Dyas is unavailable.”

The Jedi named Obi-Wan closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and then stands. “Right. That’s... well, alright, I absolutely have to call the Council now.”

Prime smiles, pulling Boba into his side. Rex finds himself tugged down to sit where Obi-Wan had been a few moments earlier.

“Why are you telling us all this?” the natborn woman says. “This Count sounds like he hired you, did he not?”

“The project predated his involvement, but yes, he’s my supervisor, so to speak.” Prime smiles that same dark smile, runs a hand over Boba’s head and pointedly doesn’t look at Obi-Wan. That smile is... unpleasant. Rex doesn’t want to look at it, and so he looks down to the faint glow at his wrist instead. “Did you know, they told me the clones would be sub-sentient and halfway to droids? Not really people? That my DNA was for the bodies, but the minds would be little more than lines of code? Do you know how much they hated that I saw the evidence of their lies written into my children’s skin?”

Rex jolts, head whipping about and hand pulling away from his soulmate, staring at Prime, his mouth agape in a way a soldier’s shouldn’t but--but he’s--

Rex has never, ever heard the Prime refer to any of them except Boba as his child. His copies, his echoes, his clones, but not his children.

A hand curls into his, and he looks down to find Anakin’s lacing their fingers together. He looks up into a hopeful, unsure smile.

Anakin tilts his head and leans in, lips to Rex’s ear, and says, “When I told Obi-Wan he was like a father to me, he didn’t even know how to respond. Just made a bad joke about it and then pretended it didn’t happen. Is this the same?”

“...close enough,” Rex breathes out, because now isn’t the time to explain just how different a clone’s existence is from what they’ve seen in the holos meant to prepare them for interacting with civilians. That ‘family’ here has always been brothers, your squad and any brother that chooses to take you on, or a brother you choose to nurture, that the Alphas raise them more than Prime or the trainers do, that the older squads are who they turn to because the adults won’t help, that they don’t have parents, and they are discouraged from thinking of children in their futures.

(Protecting intellectual property, one of the scientists had mused. They’d made it very, very difficult for any of the clones to impregnate a partner. Not impossible, because to make it impossible was itself impossible, but... nearly so.)

“There’s millions of us,” Rex says instead. “He doesn’t... he doesn’t usually acknowledge most of us as his.”

Anakin’s face twists, already angry, and the glare he aims at Prime is ghastly. Rex might already be a little in love, just for that. The way Anakin’s fingers squeeze around his is nice, too.

Prime does not notice.

“Can I see the contract you say you signed?” the natborn woman says, and Prime eyes her. He nods, at length, weighing her worth and finding she measures up to whatever it is that he’s decided is necessary.

“Boba, go pack like we’re going on a hunt,” Prime says, pulling out a personal datapad and only dropping his gaze to find the right file. “We’ll probably be leaving tonight.”

“Okay, buir,” Boba says, sliding off the couch. “Am I telling the Alphas the thing you said?”

“No, I’ll handle that myself. You just pack.” He stands, nods to the natborn woman, and moves around the table. “Senator, I’ll sit with you, if you don’t mind. I imagine you and Knight Kenobi are the best suited to get this problem fixed.”

“And me?” Anakin demands.

“You,” Prime says, with a just a hint of condescending drawl. “have just met your soulmate. I assumed you’d want some privacy to get to know each other.”

Anakin flushes, a little angry and a lot embarrassed. It’s frighteningly cute. “I--I mean--I don’t--”

“The clones are mentally the ages they look, but do remember they’ve had practically no time to gain any sort of experience,” Prime says, already ignoring them in favor of pointing something out on the datapad to the senator. “Take advantage of any of my kids, and I’ll be the one hunting you down. I’m told I’m rather good at it.”

Anakin’s face does some acrobatics. Rex would pay more attention, but he can feel himself turning just as red.

“Rex, you know where the private meeting room is,” Prime says, and waves a hand in the direction of the tiny, tiny office that’s by the door. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Be nice,” the Senator hisses, smacking Prime’s arm.

“He’s ten.”

“...still.”

Rex just stands and pulls Anakin away to the little room before things can get worse.

They’re delayed when Obi-Wan asks what they’re doing from the kitchen he’s been using to get a spot of privacy, but then Anakin says “we’re just going to talk, Master,” and they get an aggrieved sigh and a response of “the clothes stay on, padawan, and you’ll need to finish up whatever conversation you have soon, there’s work to do and being a padawan only excuses you from so much.”

Rex backs into the meeting room, yanks Anakin in, and then decides to throw caution to the wind and just press their lips together.

Oh.

Okay.

He’s kissing back.

Lack of caution: good.

The mark at his wrist thrums, warm and comfortable, and Rex pulls away. He stifles the noise he wants to make, and when Anakin whines, small and soft but clearly disappointed, Rex offers him a small grin he knows would get him called ‘shy’ by his asshole older brothers.

“We probably should actually get to know each other,” Rex says. “I don’t even know your last name.”

“I... yeah, I don’t know yours either, unless it’s Fett.”

“It’s not. I don’t have one.”

Anakin’s face does another one of those ‘I’m angry for you’ twists that Rex is quickly coming to recognize, and then he sighs and falls into one of the chairs. “Okay. So. I don’t know much about the soldier life. Tell me about it.”

And he does.

#Rexwalker #Anakin Skywalker #Captain Rex #Jango Fett #Obi Wan Kenobi #Padme Amidala #Soulmate AU #Phoenix Posts #Phoenix Answers Memes #star wars

[obutsuwrites]

crybaby (therapist!overhaul x f!reader)

summary: She nodded, too ashamed and drunk on her own high to function. 

Unsatisfied by her response, Chisaki grabbed her face. Her rosy cheeks squished in his grip. Chisaki realized she was cute like this. A little puffy fish. 

“You’re being such an annoying pig. My patience is growing thin. Tell me. Tell me you want my cock.” His sentence stumbled from him, in between heavy breaths. 

The woman buried her face in his chest, “Please fuck me, Kai. I need it -- please, please, please.”  warnings: boot worship, dubcon, light scalpel play, male masturbation, light medical play, praise, smut, overstimulation, yandere elements word count: 4,162 lil note: this was written as part of the bnha degeneracy 9 to 5 collab! also we like the banner?? i’m thinking of bein fancy with my posts now 👉👈 masterlist | tipjar | twitter | commission info | ask box is open (for requests)

"His eyes were lifeless. No light entered, no light left. I guess," the woman pauses and pushes out a gravely sigh, "no… refraction." Chisaki Kai notes she says the word with grief; as if it were painful. He scribbles a note: overemotional. Golden eyes examined the woman. Scanning and memorizing the imperfections in her armor. The woman that sat comfortably. It was like her little sad frame didn't bother her. Her body shook and a whimper escaped. 

'Fascinating,' he thought. She was a pathetic creature. Sobbing once a week into his fine leather. The woman was an ugly crier. Her face would swell; puffy and pink. Eyes glossy and red. Sometimes, Chisaki's pants would constrict from the display. Misery in it's finest form. A show just for him. 

Chisaki would be lying if he didn't think this blubbering woman would look better wrapped around his cock. Her squishy face smashed against his groin. Eyes watery and looking up, words of praise muffled. Latex gloves gripping her hair as he degrades her. 'A pathetic little crybaby.'

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The first time she had cried, Chisaki sent her packing. His stern voice demanding she "fix her attitude" before returning. Yet, the very next week this weepy woman crumbles. Her voice was a howl. Low and haunting. She'd shake. Her tiny body unable to contain grief. It was disgusting. This was time for help, not fits. The second time, Chisaki only found it unsightly. 

But the third time? The third time she was able to speak, and her voice trembled. Words so sad and awful. She was lesser than him. She was pathetic. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Eventually, Chisaki memorized her trauma; low self esteem and a lack of power from an event involving a roommate. Some days he learned more than others. Sometimes the woman would simply come to cry. No words, simply the sound of her wails. They bounced off the room like rubber. Her sobbing stuck in his ears like honey. Thick. Syrupy. Sweet. 

Nothing seemed to improve during their sessions. It was always one fit after another. No change. No spiral. This crybaby was the only constant for Chisaki. His patients came and went, conditions manageable. But this little crybaby of a woman was expected every Friday at 4. Punctuality was her only redeeming quality. There was something pleasant in appreciating Chisaki's time. 'Considerate' was the word. 

She stopped crying as the clock struck 6. 'Like clockwork.' Truthfully, Chisaki believed the woman allowed herself this insecurity. The two hours with him were cathartic. He circles the word in his notes. His canary eyes were glued to her file now. The woman's face was bland and uninteresting. 'You look so plain like this.' A scowl returned to Chisaki's lips. 

"Thank you, Dr. Chisaki," the woman beamed. She often pretended as if she hadn't wept. As if Chisaki were paying her a kindness. It enraged him; she was scum. Her position was beneath him. Her eyes wouldn't leave him. Glossy and wrinkled in a grin. 

'Sickening.' 

Chisaki suppressed a shiver, "I appreciate our talks," his lips twist into a smile, "Drive home safely." He always emphasized the talking. Her trembling lips and heavy voice were erotic in a way. Chisaki wondered what her tears tasted like. He envisioned himself atop her; fingers exploring her pussy, tongue lapping at her tears. 

He watched the woman leave. Golden orbs trained on her back. She took her time leaving; punishment for watching her cry. Chisaki’s cheeks grew hot. It was nauseating to think of bending her over the fine leather. Chisaki was convinced she’d be obedient, her ass waiting in the air. 

‘You’d be a soaking little crybaby, wouldn’t you?’

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

His evening began with ritual. Chisaki slipped off his slacks, opting to keep his sweater on. He felt less dirty that way. His cock sprung from his boxer briefs. Heavy and veiny. Chisaki rubbed the tip before spitting on it. He rubbed the spit in, thinking of her. Drooling and sobbing on his cock. Chisaki wanted to rob her of oxygen, ‘Her face must be so cute when she chokes.’ The thought hit Chisaki as he stroked his length. He grunted, palm pumping his cock. His other hand cradled his balls, softly kneading. Orgasms felt so dirty. Unnatural. Viscous cum shot into the pillowy deepness of a tissue. 

He looked at it and groaned. Tossing the tissue away, Chisaki started preparation. 

The hum of a computer filled his bedroom. It was ancient, but Chisaki wasn’t picky. Besides, the rudimentary technology only served one purpose. This was Chisaki’s gateway into ‘hysteria and the female orgasm.’ A million and five hundred thousand results. Everything at his fingertips. He observed her enough -- watched her enough to realize what she needed. She needed his latex clad fingers. His cock buried in her seeping core. He’d stretch her, ruin her body for anyone but him. Her cunt was made for him. 

Chisaki sat in his underwear. Face focused on an order page. Recently, Chisaki found himself hyper focusing on this fantasy; his little crybaby overstimulated and mewling, begging Chisaki for relief. She’d pray for his cock. He was her only release. 

The plan was simple. Allow her to breakdown as usual until he could no longer handle it. Then, he’d offer the woman a glass of water. Claiming that she must be ‘so dehydrated.’ If she refused, Chisaki planned to persist. ‘It’s for my peace of mind, too.’ He could strike her vulunability. Show her someone cared. She was naive and too stupid, so clearly she would lap up his kindness. Insist on drinking every last drop, letting the ‘medication’ take full effect. This necessity was for his sake. Chisaki didn’t want his crybaby too loud. 

His mind drifted to her wiggling beneath him, his boot pressed against her cheek. Perhaps he would force her to lick it, if only to remind her of her place. 

“Beneath me,” he murmurs as a hand sneaks under his waistline. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

His kit sits comfortably, tucked behind a bookshelf. Chisaki recognized he needed items. Physical means to make his vision into reality. He anticipated she would come into his embrace quietly… but a part of him hoped she’d fight him. Permit him to make an example of her. Chisaki’s chest tightened. The clock ticked slowly, as if chastising Chisaki for his plans. However, he knew she needed this -- needed him. 

In his kit sat latex gloves, rope, a scalpel, and an expensive vibrator. The personal massager took some convincing to buy; he hated the idea of a market for these… toys… but it was essential. Her face had to be flushed and sweaty. It was important she knew how inferior she was. Chisaki was doing her an injustice by letting the woman merely exist without him. 

A soft beep echoed; the beginning of his plan. Chisaki sat with his legs crossed. Leisurely. Slender fingers atop his notes. The little pile before him was a fraction of his observations. His little crybaby was interesting, to say the least. She was his favorite client. Chisaki was almost embarrassed by the sheer volume of material he kept. His closet was home to clothes and boxes; all filled with parchment. Their margins were adorned in highlight and sticky notes. Chisaki was nothing if not dedicated. 

Quiet foot falls marked her arrival. The woman would always stand outside until Chisaki welcomed her in. Even asking permission for her therapist appointment. There was something admirable about it -- something Chisaki had to break. 

“Come in,” Chisaki called. His voice carried an airy professionalism. Yellow eyes briefly looked up, but quickly returned to the floor. Chisaki held his lust by memorizing the carpet. 

She shuffled in, gently shutting the door behind her. Despite the miserable crybaby mannerisms, the woman was quite polite. ‘Very well trained for a mutt,’ Chisaki mused. Silence was heavy between them; this weeping woman was never consistent with greetings. Somedays, she wouldn’t choke out a ‘hello’ until deep within her misery. Her words obviously muted by her hands. She liked to cradle her face, Chisaki believed it was to stimulate intimacy. Something she was clearly lacking. 

Settling into a chair, she managed a meek ‘hello’ before salty tears brimmed her eyes. Chisaki snuck a glance; she looked in pain. Her bottom lip stuck between teeth. The woman nibbled at the flesh. Anything to alleviate her sadness. The sharp pain was a perfect anchor.

‘I won’t cry. I won’t cry in front of him today.’ She was going to will herself to hold back tears and actually talk. It was kind enough of Dr. Chisaki to let her openly bawl. In all honesty, the woman hated herself for it. At this point, she was only paying him to watch. The poor man was probably too shy -- too professional to ask her to quit. She was abusing his altruism. The woman bit back a shiver, puffing out her chest. Swallowing sadness. 

Chisaki looked up. Silence between them this early was… "Are you okay?" Her name comes out like a melody. Something he wants to say forever. Chisaki gripped his clipboard. He needed to ground himself. Find haven in reality. 

She stares back, "I come here bec--"

"Don't say it," he murmured. Hand resting comfortably on her thigh. There was an obvious barrier; her leggings. Plush. Almost like her pillowy thighs. Chisaki groped at the plump flesh; "You're so soft." His fingers wander to pinch, "It's disgusting."

The woman remained quiet. Debating with his hand creeping toward her thigh felt dangerous. Dr. Chisaki made her feel dirty; lewd, maybe? She wasn’t sure. The heat in her core was becoming overwhelming. Her mouth moved to speak, but nothing fell out. Empty.

“Silent now, are we? What happened to your big speech? Tell me about how you’re feeling… right now.” His words were a command. No trace of a request. Chisaki needed to hear her quake; wiggle against his clothed bulge. 

Saliva pooled in her mouth. Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety. 

“I want to go home,” She blubbered, voice strained and whining. Her vision was blurry at best. Everything was splotchy. Dr. Chisaki was an imposing shape of purple and black. She knew he wore a tie; simple deep purple. Shirt. His shirt is black. It takes her a moment to compose thoughts. His hand and her only time to weep were overstimulating.

Chisaki continued his assault, fingers violently rubbing at her covered slit. He wanted to see a tear before the gloves. Before her examination. His cock pulsated at the thought. Latex in her mouth, stuffing her with the cure his cock. A shock -- an orgasm (even this word was perverse to Chisaki) would dislodge any feverishness. Dissipation. Her cries for him. 

“You’re crying,” Chisaki commented; hand slow against her crotch, “Little crybaby.” 

The woman muffled a sob and instead bit her lip. Blood bloomed in the corner of her smile. The doctor was a curse. This was illegal. He shouldn’t be touching her like this. 

He sighed.

“Nothing just as I suspected.” 

“This... “ A heave interjects, “This is my time. I can’t express myself like this.” She motions to her tears. Honestly, the woman was high-strung. Revealing herself -- taking off a mask -- was cathartic. Liberation in its purest form. 

He pursed his lips and harshly removed his hand. The auburn haired man stood up; crossing the room to a benign black bag. Chisaki rooted around for his gloves. Latex, white, a barrier between them. Chisaki wanted to touch her briefly -- skin to skin was important. Necessary. Something unavoidable. 

A snap resounded through the room. Loud. Interrupting. Chisaki wanted to be heard. He wanted her to gawk; eyes glued to him. 

Her face erupted into confusion. Fear nestled into her veins. Too cold, too much. "What is..?" The woman's voice is quiet and still muffled from tears. 

'This is the cutest you've looked, isn't it?' Chisaki thought of pinching her cheeks, examining the damage. His pants constricted. It was a kindness to teach this wrenched woman her place. 

"Keep talking. This is a part of your therapy," Chisaki stated plainly. He rummaged in the bag further, producing something thin and shiny; metallic caught in the fluorescence. Uncomfortable by the sight, the woman shifted her gaze to his feet. His choice of footwear was odd. Polished, tar black boots. His footfalls were anything but quiet. Roaring. Really, she found it intimidating. 

“Please…” She didn’t know why she begged like this. Dr. Chisaki wasn’t supposed to be this cruel. He was a therapist -- her therapist. He seemed so balanced before. Normal. And yet the man before her stood with molten eyes and a scalpel. 

Slowly, the auburn haired man strode toward her. As if he were a lion savoring his meal. Inspection for prime dread. “Don’t be stupid and move. It’d be a shame if I,” Chisaki paues to taste the words, “hurt you.” Like any greedy man, Chiaski expected resistance. 

But like a good little doe, she stares into the scalpel. ‘So moronic shiny things distract you.’ In a way, he found it enduring. She was so pathetic, so useless without his sympathetic ear. Functioning without him must be a chore; he was her sanctuary. 

He stops in front of her, boot tapping against wood. “I think it’s beneficial you learn your place, don’t you? Society must be so pressuring for you. As your licensed healthcare professional, it’s my business.”

The woman gathered remaining courage. 

“I’ll call the police.” Before her threat was tangible, Chisaki grabbed her wrists. They fit perfectly in one gloved hand. 

“Stop being such a little crybaby bitch.” Cool metal touches her cheek. A warning from Dr. Chisaki. 

A shiver overtook her spine. The scalpel was new, shiny, and sharp. He could slice into her face right now, nothing was truly stopping him. Anxiety bubbled in her mind. This man was dangerous. Maybe, maybe monstrous. He listened to her, let her reveal such an intimate part, only to turn on her trust. Betrayal in the worst form. 

The woman doesn’t respond.

“Get on all fours,” Chisaki commanded. He punctuated his sentence with a shove. “You’re such a pig bitch, you know that right? It’s sad you think anyone would listen to you sob.”

Her eyes grew into shock. With trembling hands, the woman gets on her knees. Her palms were flat atop spotless wood. Dr. Chisaki was quirky like that. If anything, she admired him for it. He seemed so disciplined. ‘All lies,’ she thinks, melancholy stuck in her eyes. Her heart practically ached. Ached for herself, ached for him.

His lips curled into a smirk. Eyes genuinely wrinkled. Finally, this succubus learned. A jolt of excitement shot through his cock; the member twitching. 

“Kiss my boots.”

She blinked at his demand. Her mind had to catch up. She needed to absorb the sentence. Should she resist, kick him, and take off? Could she? Her mind swirled with violent images. Large hands wrapped around her throat. His naked body sweaty against hers. 

The woman decided to comply. Chisaki watched in anticipation as her lips made contact with glossy leather. Staying up to wax them was worth it for this. Every fantasy was drab compared to her. She was meek; placing light kisses. Her lips ghosted and left little spit puddles in her wake. Chisaki felt a certain hotness in his stomach. The act was so disgusting, and yet, Chisaki was grinding his bulge into his palm. 

Suddenly, the woman stopped and looked up at her confidant. “Can I -- please -- can I leave now?” 

Chisaki frowns. She doesn’t sound broken enough. ‘Fixed enough,’ he corrects. ‘She needs to be fixed. Cured.’

“Did I say you could stop?” The auburn man sneered. He stomped his boot, his patient mask falling. “Keep kissing them. Slobber on them, little pig. Show me how worthless you are.”

Her tongue whirled around, saliva dotting his boots. She sounded flustered. Huffs and soft squirming. “How are you feeling? You seem to be enjoying it.” 

Without meeting his predatory gaze, she whimpered in between sloppy kisses, “I -- I love this so much, Dr. Chisaki.” Such an obedient crybaby. 

“We know each other enough for Kai, you know that.” 

Eager yellow eyes watched. Excitement lit up inside his veins. Hot and unable to reject. 

Being complacent was her only means of survival now. She stopped, doe eyes boring into him.

Drool trailed from her lips, joined with his boot. “Kai, can I?” Her warm hand removed his and rubbed his crotch. Delicate fingers feeling his length, massaging girth and veins. A vibrating, rough groan escaped Chisaki. Something deep. Something feral. It was a sound the woman couldn’t fathom. 

And yet, she felt a tingle between her thighs. 

Chisaki stroked her face. Squishy and tear-stained; she should be embarrassed. How humiliating must it be to grovel and sob? It was pitiful in a way. Broken. Pathetic. “Let me see how much you want my cock, like the filthy pig you are. So greedy.”

In response to his harsh words, the woman graciously unbuckled his sleek belt, and quickly unbuttoned his slacks. His cock was constrained underneath boxer-briefs. The cut showed off his calves, toned and lean. Being this close to Chisaki reminded her how big he was -- he towered over her. 

She fumbled with the hem of his underwear. Unsure if he wanted her hand or her mouth. 

Noticing her confusion, Chisaki brought a gloved finger to her lips, “Suck.” 

The woman shook while she tugged down Chisaki’s boxer-briefs. His cock -- slick with pre-cum -- sprung from their cloth prison. She winced at his size; he would spear her. Shoving away lewd images, she gently stroked him. An experimental touch before she took him into her mouth. His cock was heavy in her mouth. The girth of Chisaki made her cheeks puff. Gently, she tried to work his cock to the back of her throat. His bulbous tip made her gag, a sensation that had Chisaki instinctively forcing his cock down her esophagus. Her walls contracted around him. In a panic, the woman tried to shove him away. The action was futile, which left her with one option: digging her nails into him. Piercing his thighs to get him to stop. 

“Don’t be so rough, piglette.” Chisaki tugged at her hair until she winced, an audible squeal was muffled by his violent thrusting. Spit dribbled down her chin, landing on her chest. Her face was awash with crimson, discomfort in her features. Chisaki took her in like fine wine. Delicious and sweet. 

Her wet tongue tangled with his cock, exploring every inch of him. Hot breath pistoned from her nose. Her nails were still pricking him. Pain mixed with pleasure, until the hot bundle within his stomach felt as if it might explode. Salty pre-cum flooded her mouth; the taste resulting in a sour face. Chisaki knew he’d cum if she didn’t stop. 

Chisaki pushed the woman away. Surprised and caught off guard, she lost balance, slamming her palms on the floor. 

Chisaki stepped out of his clothes and crouched down. The auburn man decided to instead examine her face, and allow his fingers free-range over her delicate body. 

“Stay still,” Chisaki advised, his fingers manipulating the doughy flesh of her breast. She was as soft as he imagined. He could easily bruise her; give her marks that screamed, ‘you belong to Kai Chisaki.’ But he resisted. “Take off your blouse -- slowly -- and tell me how sad and pathetic you truly are.” 

“I’m… I’m so sad all the time. I just have this -- oh god -- I have this deep sadness and it feels suffocating, Kai. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.”

Her body stiffened at his request. The words were too harsh. Too rough. She lifted up her shirt and tossed it behind her. She looked away as Chisaki’s monstrous gaze transversed her chest. 

“The bra too, piggie.”

Taking off her bra added another layer of awkwardness. This wasn’t the first time a man saw her like this -- exposed and sweaty… but his hungry eyes sent chills through her. An electricity of unease. 

Cruel hands fondled her breasts. His fingers were faint over her nipples. She leaned into his touch, back arched. Barely audible mewls flew from her lips. Her body betrayed her. It was degrading. She should already be out the door and dialing the police. But no, her body craved him. ‘A compliant little pig.’ Chisaki hands wandered to her hip and played with the edge of her skirt. His motions were playful. This side of him was tolerable. Chisaki was like a school boy; bashful and nervous.

“Now, how are you feeling?” Chisaki asked. His tone was condescending; he wasn’t asking out of benign professionalism, but hateful interest. 

Her mouth opens and then closes. Unable to compose a response, the woman simply places a hand over his. 

Slapping her thigh, Chisaki chides her, “Speak, pig. Use your idotic words and tell sir how you feel.” 

She gulps. 

“I feel sick. This is shameful, s-sir.” The lewd title causes her blush to deepen. Cheeks flush with embarrassment and delight. Chisaki saw his treatment was finally starting to take hold. 

Chisaki snakes a hand under her skirt, massaging her slit once more. Her arousal was still there, clinging wet panties to her cunt. The woman bit her lip trying to stifle groans. The mixture of his fingers on her breast and between her thighs was almost too much. Sweat gathered at her brow as Chisaki slipped a finger into her soaking core. His slender finger pistoned in and out; snapping against her lips. The auburn man had a lack of mercy, his mouth clasped over her neck. Hot mouth sucking at tender flesh. His tongue circled around the abused patch of skin, desperate to savor her. 

The room was an ensemble of depravity; their moans mixed with the squelch of her pussy. She bucked into his digit, her body hurting for the stimulation. Heat built in her stomach, like a balloon filled with fire. The sensation continued to expand until it peaked; a high pitched squeal marking her orgasm. 

There was a popping sound and then, “So excited you cum already, pitiful, and I was hoping you’d squirm more. You want my cock, don’t you?” His finger leaves her cunt. Spongy walls now empty and wanting. 

She nodded, too ashamed and drunk on her own high to function. 

Unsatisfied by her response, Chisaki grabbed her face. Her rosy cheeks squished in his grip. Chisaki realized she was cute like this. A little puffy fish. 

“You’re being such an annoying pig. My patience is growing thin. Tell me. Tell me you want my cock.” His sentence stumbled from him, in between heavy breaths. 

The woman buried her face in his chest, “Please fuck me, Kai. I need it -- please, please, please.” She broke out into a series of pleas mixed with crying. Her body was still numb, still too high to really anticipate more. Overstimulated and teary eyed. 

“On your back,” Chisaki breathed, his face slightly flushed. He maneuvered her bare body and spread her legs around his wiry waist. Her knees hooked at an angle, like a spider.

Chisaki lined himself up with her tender, violated hole. “You’re so fucking insignificant.” His first thrust was hard and without warning. She gasped and placed her palms on his chest. Carnivorous, gold eyes looked down at her, mouth open and panting. His hips snapped against the back of her thigh. The sound was sharp against their perverse moans. A chorus of vulgarity. His girth made her cunt ache, sensitive walls stretched and full. “Do -- do you know how miserable you make me, little crybaby?” Forming sentences was hard. Chisaki’s cock was sucked in by her cunt; stuck in a death grip. ‘Gonna milk me for every bit of cum, aren’t you, piggie?’

Her hands roamed his chest. His relentless pumping was too much. She needed to grab something. To ground herself back into reality and not a cum induced daze. His veins added texture. Something so stimulating the woman found herself atop another peak. Ready to descend. However, Chisaki hadn’t quite reached nirvana. The cool air desensitized him. The heat of her pussy was like a shock. 

“Focus on me.” His raspy voice brought her back into the moment. Squishy body jiggling from the force of Chisaki. Lidded eyes rolled over to gawk at Chisaki. Blissed out. “Honestly, your little crybaby face is cute like this, piggie.” A light slap smacked against her cheek, as if to further compliment her. 

Chisaki’s rutted into her sloppy cunt until the hot brand in his stomach exploded; a deep groan vibrated from his chest as cum squirted into her cunt. He milked each thrust, until his balls lazily slapped against her. Tears streaked her face. Eyes glazed over with ecstasy. He grabbed her face once more. A close up look of the damage, “You did so well for a stupid little crybaby.

#overhaul x reader #chisaki kai x reader #yandere bnha #smut #bnha

[wagner-fell]

Spiders Are Ugly And Other Lies Capitalism Has Told Us (part one)

“Dad,” Astrid called out, shutting the coral coloured front door behind her. “Are you home?”

She dumped her cream tote bag spray painted with the words ‘Washing Machine Heart’ in big, rainbow letters onto one of the stools facing the granite countertop. The rest of the Merry Hoes followed suit. It was weird seeing a person as chaotic as Astrid in such a calm environment.

They were all spending the summer in LA with Astrid and her Dad. It had taken a while for Kevin to convince his family it was a good idea. Especially because he and Blessica had finally put years of pinning behind them. Making out on Kit’s bed at Mina’s third birthday party certainly wasn’t the way they had envisioned it but as the longing was over with, they were happy.

The Chu’s didn’t love the idea of their son living in a different country for three months with his girlfriend but we’re on board once Kevin assured them there was no possible way Blessica could get pregnant.

Kit wasn’t officially sleeping at the Yang’s but at the Institute with his boyfriend. Julian wasn’t so thrilled about the situation but Emma was. She was positively ecstatic about having a training partner as skilled as Kit was, courtesy of Jem and Tessa. Though staying a thirty minute drive away (on the wrong side of the road, Mari noted) wouldn’t keep Kit away for long. Even now he was with them instead of having his own reunion make out session.

Speaking of making out…

Mari rested their chin on the top of Astrid’s head and wrapped their arms around her middle. “Why don’t you show us your room while we wait for your dad to get home.”

It was kinda perfect, Mari often remarked, that she realized her feelings for their best friend weren’t so platonic as she previously led herself to believe at the same time they and Kit realized they were better off as just platonic.

Astrid hit her hand playfully. “That’s not fair!” she whined! ”How dare you take advantage of my constant hornyness when my God-fearing Presbyterian father could be in the next room? Shame! Shame on you, shame on your family, shame on your cow.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s ‘dishonor’”, said Kit, who didn’t even look up from his phone when he addressed her, “but go off I guess.”

Astrid looked like she was questioning all her life choices up to this point. “A white boy knows Mulan better than me.” She shook her head in disgust. Mari could feel the loose hairs of her girlfriend’s ponytail ticking her exposed collar bone. “Mulan.”

Mari laughed before softly brushing their lips against Astrid mop of bleached strands of pastel yellow, pink and blue mixed magnificently with her natural inky black.

“Is hornyness even a word?” Kevin wondered aloud as he observed the knickknacks placed at even intervals utop the kitchen cabinets. Blessica was with him. She was gazing at one of a crab steering a ship when she spotted a slim piece of paper taped below it.

“Ast,” she called. The both looked in her direction, despite Blessica needing the attention of one. “Your dad says he won’t be home till seven. Emergency at work.”

“Which leaves us more than enough time to pack and head over to meet Ty, Dru and Thaìs at the arcade,” said Kit. He finally turned his phone off and shoved it into the back pocket of his ripped jeans. “Marstrid can do the ol’ devil’s tango then catch up to us.”

‘Marstrid’ wrinkled their noses. “I thought we agreed on Astari, Christopher.”

“Astari sounds gayer,” confirmed Kevin, his eyes never leaving the miniature decorations.

“Not to be rude but why does Astari sound gayer?” asked a visibly confused Blessica.

“Because,” answered Mari, unraveling herself from Astrid to slide onto one of the bar stools and reaching into the Jolly Rancher jar, blindly searching for a green, “Astari has ‘star’ in it. Star equals astrology. An obsession with astrology is the price you pay for the gay agenda. Besides, Marstrid sounds like an old southern lady.” Then she furrowed her eyebrows and swiveled to face Astrid. “Southern is Texas, right?” Astrid nooded, a smile so big the Cheshire Cat would be jealous.

Without looking, she stuck her hand in the jar and pulled out a green apple flavoured hard candy on her first try. She held it out to Mari, who snatched it out of her hand with an angry huff.

“Hey, Ast, where do you guys keep the crisps?” asked Kevin when he finished inspecting all the knickknacks.

“Uh, under the barbecue sauce, I think.”

Kit’s eyes lit up. “So I’m sitting there”- Astrid understood what was happening in just enough time to quote- “barbecue sauce on my titties” in unison.

Mari put her head into their open palms, still sucking on the pity candy. “Why is this my type?”

“Are you sure this is the right place?” asked Blessica as Kit attempted to parallel park outside the location Ty had texted him to meet at. Key word, attempt. When Tessa had taught him to drive, he’d been such a disaster at parallel parking she had instructed him to ‘take the underground when tight spaces might be a possibility.’ Which he prided himself in doing. But this was America and the underground was called the subway, so, technically, no rules were being broken.

“Yes, Blessie, I’m certain.”

“Okay. Just checking cause a few turns back the GPS said-”

“Blessie!” He nearly crashed into the car in front of him.

“Right. Shutting up.”

When Kit managed to park with minimal damage and the three were about to exit, the voice of Nicki Minaj boomed from his pocket. Ty was calling him. He accepted the call, putting it on speaker.

“Hello Tiberius.” There was giggling from the other end of the line. A groan soon followed it.

“It’s been a year,” came the annoyed voice of Dru. “Get over your British kink already.” Kevin’s laughter echoed from the backseat.

“Hey Ty!

“Hi Kevin.”

”Hey Dru!”

“Fuck off.”

“Ouch. Why do you feel the need to hurt me so?” Blessica laughed.

“Hey…Thaìs?”

“Here,” replied Thaìs cheerfully.

“Are you here yet,” asked Ty.

“Uh, yeah! We were just getting out of the rental car when you called. You didn’t tell me it was going to be crowded. I had to parallel park!”

“What are you talking about?” interrupted Dru. ”There are only four cars in the parking lot.”

“But,” Ty countered, “there are lots of Billy’s Fun Zones’ around here. You guys must have got mixed up and taken a wrong turn. I could have sworn I sent you the correct location on GPS.” Maybe Ty said more on the subject but Kit could hear anything or see anything except the superior smirk Blessica was giving him.

He covered the speaker. “Not. A. Word.” And no word came out of her mouth the entire ride to the correct Billy’s Fun Zone but the ‘I told you so’ look on her face spoke loud enough.

Kit slid back into the booth next to Ty, handing him his pretzel. Ty kissed him on the check in gratitude.

Dru and Ty were right. About this one being empty. He told him he had heard about it from Alyssa. Her pack frequented it often. They were left alone because, well, there was no one else there to bother them.

“Where are Astrid and Mari?” he asked.

“Fucking. I think. Or maybe just making out. I’ll know which one when they finish.” When Ty gave him a puzzled look he continued, “Astrid describes it all to me in full detail. I honestly don’t know whether she doesn’t have a filter or she just needs someone to scream to about how amazing Mari is.”

“Why can’t it be both?”

“True, true.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Ty picked up the conversation again. “When Thaìs first met Astrid, she had a huge crush on her. They got along great. I always thought they would end up together. Or hook up at the very least.”

“Huh, that’s funny,” observed Kit.

“What is?”

“When me and Mari split, I was planning on trying to set them up with Thaìs. But then I caught her ans Astrid making out in a storage closet at school. Which, in hindsight, was pretty stupid cause they were in there so I wouldn’t be sad Mari moved on when I opened the door in the first place avoiding her to call you.”

“Hmmmm.”

The gears in Ty’s head were visibly turning. Kit loved watching this process. An idea was forming in his boyfriend’s genius mind, he could sense it.

“What is their stance on monogamy?” he asked finally.

“Um, fuck, hold on. Mari sent me this whole speech about it.” Kit scrolled through his phone at a rapid rate before he saw what he was looking for. He cleared his throat and began reading aloud.

Mari_da_bisexual_whore, sent 1:52 AM: monogamy is just another lie capitalism has fed us

Mari_da_bisexual_whore, sent 1:55 AM: like, for example, the notion that house spiders are ugly and to be feared

Mari_da_bisexual_whore, sent 1:56 AM: it’s just to sell bug spray

Mari_da_bisexual_whore, sent 1:56 AM: same with monogamy

Mari_da_bisexual_whore, sent 1:56 AM: pointless!!!

Mari_da_bisexual_whore, sent 1:58 AM: in conclusion, if I want to join a polyam cult, who tf is the government to stop me?

Kev-Kev, sent 2:01 AM: mari please go to sleep

Bless-ing_to_the_world, sent 2:04 AM: ^^^^^^^^^^^

Mitski_my_love, sent 2:05 AM: preach!

Mitski_my_love, sent 2:05 AM: go off queen

By the time Kit was finished with his dramatic reading, Ty’s plan was fully formed.

“That settles it! We are going to play matchmakers!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alyssa, Ty’s friend mentioned is @thechangeling OC, not mine.

@the-blackdale @the-wckd-powers @adoravel-fenomeno @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @illusions-give-reasons-to-live @ithurielkeepsgettingkidnapped @im-not-ruined-im-ruination @sofiatheskeleton @cncnbr @its-taff @noah-herondale-lightwood @maxboythedog @arangiajoan @shelvesofgold @book-dragon-not-worm sorry if I missed anyone LMK if you want to be added or removed from The tag List!!

#mari machado sotomayor #mari machado #mari the werewolf #tiberius blackthorn #dru blackthorn #ty blackthorn #drusilla blackthorn #blessica reyes #the merry hoes #kevin chu #astrid yang #kit rook #kit herondale #thais pedroso #the secrets of blackthorn hall #the wicked powers

[ultraintrovertedgryffindor]

Rule Breakers - Dewdrop Ghoul (Ghost)

Another story with child!Dewdrop. I love him so much lol. Please, someone make fanart of the Ghouls as kids! I would literally die of adorableness 

Slight trigger warning: some bullying

~~~~~~~~~~

You were born when your mother was a Sister of Sin, so you were friends with the little Ghouls since you lived in the same building.

There has always been a rule in the Abbey that Ghouls were never allowed to leave the premises, other than adult Ghouls on Halloween. The adult Ghouls that were part of the band were the only ones that could travel.

You didn’t understand why. To you, they were the same as other people, they just looked a little different. Whenever you wanted to play with the Ghouls outside the Abbey, the members always told you that you couldn’t and that they’d explain why one day.

Your mother told you that people would become afraid if they knew that Ghouls existed, that they wouldn’t understand it.

You always thought the Ghouls were adorable, so how could anyone think they were scary?

You wanted to prove the Abbey wrong that people would be afraid of Ghouls.

But you made a plan, a pretty good plan in your in your opinion.

You wanted to take one of the Ghouls to school with you on Halloween. You thought, if anyone suspected the Ghoul, you’d just tell them it was a very well made costume.

What could go wrong?

It took some trial and error, but you finally convinced a Ghoul to agree to your plan.

All the other Ghouls were afraid to break the Abbey’s rules, except one.

Dewdrop.

Dewdrop had always wanted to see the outside world, other than the garden in the middle of the lot. He thought at least Swiss would want to join, him having a somewhat rebellious nature, but he was too scared.

Halloween day, the plan finally in motion.

All the students were encouraged to wear a costume to school. You wanted to dress up just like you mom, and so she made you a habit that looked just like hers.

You were ecstatic, about the costume and your plan.

You quickly grabbed Dewdrop from the area of the building where the rest of the Ghouls lived, and surprising snuck him out successfully.

Even with his fiery attitude, you could see your friend was nervous by how much he fiddled with his hands.

“It’ll be fun.” You encouraged.

You both waited at the bus stop.

It didn’t take long for the large vehicle to arrive, letting out a noisy hiss when it stopped, making Dewdrop flinch at the sound.

The doors opened and the driver immediately let out a gasp, making you start to panic at the thought of getting caught. “What amazing costumes you two have!” The old lady awed, making you and Dewdrop sigh in relief.

You and Dewdrop let out a chuckle, you giving the driver a meek thanks and walking to your typical seat on the bus.

The whole bus ride consisted of Dewdrop looking around nervously and you repeatedly telling him to stop flicking his tail around. The lie you came up with just in case someone asked was: it was a remote controlled tail. But even you didn’t buy that.

The bus stop finally arrived at your elementary school. It was relatively large, so you weren’t too worried about your teachers not recognizing Dewdrop. They could barely remember you anyway.

Students were entering the building in hordes, and suddenly Dewdrop grabbed your sleeve.

“Y/N...I’m nervous...” He admitted.

“We’ll be fine. It’ll be fun! I promise!” You smiled, childlike innocence to your voice.

Dewdrop nodded and took a deep breath, following you into the building.

Walking down the halls, you tried to ignore all the whispers from fellow students bad mouthing you. You weren’t very popular in school, most kids picked on you. But you kept your head high, not letting it get to you. You wanted to follow in your mother’s morals and outlooks on life. She was the stronger person you knew, she never let anyone bring her down.

Dewdrop however, with his super hearing, felt his blood boil when he realized all the harsh comments were about you. He started to feel the tips of his fingers burn. He dug his claws into his palms, not wanting to give himself away that he wasn’t human. But he hated what these kids were saying about you.

So far, things were going well. No teachers noticed that Dewdrop wasn’t a student...or that he wasn’t human.

One teacher even said that if they had a contest, Dewdrop’s “costume” would win for sure.

Dewdrop did have to laugh a little when a teacher explained what Halloween was about, or what their version was about. Guess you couldn’t teach little kids that Halloween is about worshiping Satan.

Overall, Dewdrop was having a fun experience. Learning about things he was never taught in the Abbey before. He surprisingly even liked math.

Then came recess, the bane of your existence.

It was the time when the bullying was the worst, you just hoped Dewdrop wouldn’t do anything.

“Hey, devil child!” One of your bullies called out. “Dressing like your whore mom, huh?”

You quickly felt the burning sensation pricking your eyes. You were fine getting bullied, but not your mom. “Don’t...” You whimpered at Dewdrop, already feeling the heat radiate from his body.

Dewdrop grit his teeth, willing himself to not shatter this bully’s nose.

“Aww, look! She’s gonna cry!” The bully laughed and pointed.

The bully walked closer to you and you looked down. “You gonna cry, little devil?” He teased.

“Back off.” Dewdrop growled lowly.

The bully turned to the Ghoul. “Ha, is this boyfriend? Can’t tell if it’s just the mask or what, but he sure is ugly!”

“Just stop!” You shouted.

The bully suddenly pushed you to ground, laughing when you let out a yelp.

Dewdrop felt his whole body heat up. He was furious, the tips of his fingers creating little sparks and his eyes glowing bright yellow.

“Dude, you’re on fire!” The bully noticed. 

“Oh really? Why don’t you take closer look?” Dewdrop grinned evilly.

You looked up in shock when you heard a high pitched screech. Dewdrop’s hand was glowing a dull orange and holding onto the bully’s arm, the slight smell of burning clothes and flesh filling the air.

You quickly got up and pulled Dewdrop’s hand away, getting slightly singed in the process. “Dewy, stop!” You cried.

Dewdrop immediately stopped, finally remembering where he was when the haze of his rage cleared. “Sorry...” He stuttered weakly to you and the now sobbing boy.

The bully quickly bailed, screaming in pain on the way into the building.

A teacher suddenly stormed up to you and Dewdrop. You panicked, but you realized she was a member of the church. But you still knew you were in deep.

“You’re lucky that I found you when I did.” The teacher/church member said and sighed from beside you, you being in the passenger’s seat of her car and Dewdrop in the backseat.

“What’s gonna happen, Ms.?” You asked timidly.

“The boy is being taken to the hospital. Dew only bring a kit, the severity of his burns won’t be life threatening. 2nd degree at the most. The burn would’ve been down at the bone if he was an adult.”

“He deserved it!” Dewdrop voiced. “He was hurting Y/N!”

“Bullying or not, the Clergy is going to be taking a huge hit from this! The parents will be pressing charges no doubt, we’ll have to settle them out of court. You two should be ashamed of yourselves!”

“I’m sorry...I didn’t think this would happen...” You whimpered.

The teacher sighed disappointingly. “I know, dear. How could you? You’re just a child.”

When you got back to the Abbey, you got a very stern lecture from the higher ups. You and Dewdrop got punishments fit for the “crime.”

It wasn’t even having privileges revoked, having to be separated from the Ghouls for a few months, that upset you. It was the disappointment in your mother’s eyes when you had to face her.

So, the parents did press charges and the church did settle them out of court and made them keep quiet about the whole thing. It took a big chunk out of the church bank account in the process, of course.

But it was worth keeping the church’s secrets under lock and key.

You felt extremely guilty for doing something so stupid, but being allowed to see your friend before the separation made you feel a little better.

Dewdrop smiled sadly at your frowning face.

“For what it’s worth, I had a lot of fun.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Like, I’m serious...please someone make art of baby ghouls...I neeeeed iiiiiit

But fun fact about me, I was actually called Devil child for the music I listened to at an old school of mine. It was great fun👌🏼

#the band ghost #ghost band #ghost band fanfiction #dewdrop ghoul

[immortalled]

@conduitandconjurer

Nathan encounters Number Four (he has no name yet) at the age of six. The boy who will become Klaus Hargreeves is somehow both shy and flirtatious as he crabwalks toward the immortal. A small charming smile, lopsided, a fox kit grin, bares a single dimple.

He giggles, and snatches up a hand. He swings it companionably, at first meekly, and then with great exuberance.

"I saw you," pipes a clear high voice. "I saw you lookin'. You see her too."

He points to a corner of his room, which is filled with nightlights, fairy lights, and lamps of every size and variety. Only in this one dim corner does the ghost of a crooked, gnarled old woman, with quite a staring problem, appear.

"C'n you make her go away? Dad says I can't let her go away. Everyone else says she's not real. But she is an' I don't like her. Pleeaaaase?"

          He can’t keep coming back here. The Doctor would probably tell him it’s dangerous, spout some science-y nonsense about revisiting the same person. But so what? Call him naïve, but he can’t see the point of being able to time travel if you never use it to change anything. Like giving one of the people you love most a friend.

          Nathan glances at the woman at the corner of the room. She’s an ugly old hag with stringy hair, knotty, arthritis-ridden hands, and deep wrinkles splotched by liver spots. But her ugliness isn’t the worst part. The ugliness Nathan’s sure he or even little Klaus here could manage. It’s her eyes that are the worst. Cloudy, milk-white irises peer dead ahead, surrounded by yellowed sclera and sunken deep into dark, red-brown sockets. She looks like she hasn’t blinked in over a century, and given the way she’s looking at them, Nathan suspects she won’t any time soon.

          He suppresses a shudder.

          “Well,”‌ Nathan exhales and offers Klaus a smile. “We just won’t tell yer dad, then, will we?”

          Squaring his shoulders, he struts right up to the ghost.

          “Hey, granny, haven’t you ever heard of a little thing called givin’ it a feckin’ rest?” Nathan claps his hands inches from her nose. As expected, the hag doesn’t blink. “Junior here needs sleep and me?‌ I’m just tired of lookin’ at you ‘n’ your gag-worthy mug. So shoo!‌ Piss off!‌ Go back and haunt whatever crappy old gutter y’crawled out of.”

          Without thinking, he reaches out and gingerly shoves her by the tips of his fingers. Her bony shoulder turns against his touch and she rocks back into the wall before his hand eventually slides through.

          “Go on—”

          Nathan strangles on his heart when the hag’s unblinking stare flits up to him.

          Oops. Probably should not have touched her.

          The ghost reaches one gnarled hand toward him. Nathan shoves her again as hard as he can. His palms meet not-quite solid body and he feels himself sink up to the wrist, the air on his arms prickling up against the jolt of ice.

          “Get. The fuck. OUT!”

          Nathan lurches forward, swinging his whole bodyweight into it, and thuds into the wall hard enough that the shelves rattle. There’s a sound on the other side, a sleepy “Klaus?”, and Nathan clamps his mouth shut tight. The ghost, at least, has vanished. Pushed… somewhere. Away. Hopefully. He takes a small step back. So far so good.

          “There,”‌ he sighs, quietly dusting his palms. “That should do it. You need t’ get some lights in this corner, squirt.”

          A meek knock against the wall makes him jump.

          “Klaus?” A child’s whisper. “What was that? Are you okay...?”

#conduitandconjurer #locks never changed [found family verse];

[jay-and-dean]

Become That Girl  Part 2/2

Dean x reader

Summary : Y/n never was his type. She is the buddy type ; sexy and glamorous are just not her. It’s time to try to change that… To change everything about herself. And maybe, just maybe, this flirty smile will be for her next time…

Warning : Swearing. Suffering and mentions of unhealthy behaviors. Smut. Unprotected sex (you’re smarter than this). Fluff. Angst.

Words :7.5 k

Become That Girl Part 1/2

***Want to read more ? => MASTERLIST***

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            Three days, three nights. Two boxes of cereals, about seventeen double chocolate brownies, four pizzas, a bottle of whiskey and twenty-one beers, eleven painkiller pills and two sleeping pills, eleven cups of coffee. About a million tears.

           Three days, three nights. Only one sweatpants, one shower, no wax, no makeup, no moisturizer, no nail polish, no sweet smile, no flutter of lashes or girly tastes in anything. About a thousand swearwords.

             When a crumb of my piece of chocolate falls on my stomach, I lift my Led Zeppelin shirt to find it and stop my movement to look at the now yellow mark the girdle left on my ribs. It’s fading, just like the hickey on my neck and the bruise on my jaw. Soon, there will be no sign of him on me.

           I get up in a sigh, walk to the library, yawing. Dean’s room door is closed, he doesn’t come out a lot lately, and during my drowning-in-tears nights, I decided he must hide out of regret, disgust and maybe even a little shame. My broken heart shattered. Now nothing really matters anymore.

           I feel both like I had manipulated the man I love into something he didn’t want -disgusting of me-, and like he used me… Nothing feels right.

           I just stopped trying to be someone else because having him didn’t make me happier. Maybe if he had given me that precious smile at least, before he fucked me. If he had shown interest, an ounce of seduction, anything…

All these efforts and suffering only got me broken for good, my heart still on the floor in a dark alley behind a shady bar, next to a cum stain and a wet cigarette butt… And it must rain there because I’m freezing all the time, like it was under cold water, my heart.

           I go to the bathroom; the bunker is silent. In the shower, I use Dean’s shampoo again and flashes of my hands in his hair punch me in the guts again. The pleasure on his face, just for me and because of me.

           I had him. My plan worked… The man I love gave in to the slutty dress and the artifices but it wasn’t even enough to make him stay a minute in my arms, to get this damn flirty smile. I will never be enough, and now that our precious friendship is corrupted by sex, nothing is pure anymore.

Yet I somehow love him even more.

           I brush my entrance just to remember the fingers of the man I love there, and notice I don’t feel him anymore. I did ; for three days, I could still feel him here. But that is fading too… I don't want to be a woman anymore, I don't really want to be a person anyway. I will be a hunter, and it will be enough.

           I step out of the shower and stare at my blurry reflection in the misty mirror. No other man is going to touch me, I don't want anybody. And even if night fell on me forever, that is a little relief : It’s behind me now, love, life and all that crap. I can die, during the next hunt or when I’m seventy, I’m done caring.

 ***

           Dean’s powerful arms cage the werewolf from behind the best he can but he won’t hold on very long. I’m laying on the floor, panting, feeling the deep cuts of his claws on my stomach soak my clothes with burning blood.

“Y/n !” the hunter calls when the monster digs his claws in his bow legs to make him let go.

His voice is filled with awful pain, his face grimacing. I decided not to care anymore lately, and to be honest, I’m quite good at it. But Dean… Dean being in pain is enough to make me jump on my feet in an animalistic growl, ignoring the screams of my flesh.

It takes me a few steps to manage running, but when I do, my run-up allows me to stab through the werewolf ribs, skidding on it to reach his heart.

           The beast falls, taking me with him because I was still holding the blade. Dean offers me a hand to help me get up but I push it, using the table to get on my feet.

"Shit" I say, realizing I will need a thousand stitches.

"Y/n, let me see" the hunter tries but I grunt, holding my bleeding stomach with a shaking hand. "I'll take you to the hospital."

"I'm okay, Dean, I had worse, cut the crap."

"Cut the..." he sighs. "Stop playing so tough..."

"I'm not playing Dean" I mock, imitating him on the words playing. "I'm not one of your princess in distress."

He clenches his jaw, pushing my arm from my stomach brutally to see the three straight wounds. He grunts and pushes my shirt up. I try to push him but he seems pissed…

We grew apart, now I don’t know what he’s thinking anymore. I used to read him like a book but now… His features just darken and I can’t be sure why. Yes, I’m stern with him but is he pissed because of that, because I’m hurt, because I annoy him …?

Having him so close kind of hurt, it didn't happen since that night. Is smell, his strength, his skin.

"Jeez Y/n... You need stitches and cleaning that wound. I'll call Sammy to get rid of the body, just get in the car."

“I can do it myself” I try but he turns toward me, grabbing my arm.

“For once, stop being so stubborn, just… trust me just this time” he grunts, tugging at my arm. “I won’t touch you more than needed, promise.”

Fuck.

That hurts.

I’m not even able to know what hurts so much : The first clear evidence of his regrets, his disappointed tone, the promise itself…

Stupid.

             I'm looking out of the window, sitting away from the man I love to the point of atrocious pain, holding my guts. My head is dizzy from the loss of blood and the ache, but I stay silent. That feeling of shame won't leave me, and my mind keeps going every way : Was I bad ? Does he look at me different now that he knows how I feel ? Was I a disappointment ? He can see I'm not trying anymore... What if he thought I used him ? Just to get laid ?...

           An involuntary whine escapes my lips. And in the darkness of the car, surrounded by night in this country road, I feel his fingers reach my thigh.

"We're close, Y/n... I'm going as fast as I can. Just, talk to me to distract from the pain, okay ?"

Except your fingers hurt more than the cuts.

"I'm okay, Dean."

 ***

           This motel room have something comforting. Maybe it's because it looks exactly like some we already had, when I wasn't so broken. The disastrous wallpaper with ugly colors and ugly patterns, the little square table and the squeaking beds. And two kind of memories come to me :

           I remember this time in California when we were laughing together at two am again and Sam got mad… The wallpaper looked like this one. We couldn’t stop making the other laugh more and more, so Sammy kicked us out of the room. I managed to convince Dean to go to the motel’s swimming pool this night. We drank beers sitting with our feet in it, until I pushed him. I was craving a kiss or anything… But I was happy anyway.

           And I remember how difficult it was to work on my looks in those motel rooms. Struggling to wax, to wash, to have intimacy. Packing too many moisturizers and nail polish, the water running cold before my conditioner was rinsed... And I remember this time Dean asked me to come to the swimming pool, but I had just done my hair… Dean doesn’t like swimming pools, and I realize just now how desperate he was to get his friend back.

           I ruined everything.

           I sit on the bed carefully, very aware of the blood drying everywhere, gluing the fabric to the wounds, pulling at the flesh. Dean enters and closes the door, his eyebrows still frown in that expression of worry I have seen so often. His thigh is bleeding but he takes this first aid kit and kneels before me.

"Show me" he asks with that low velvety voice.

I lift my t-shirt, trying not to think of how soft his hair are, trying to prevent myself from feeling that empty, because I will just always be.

           My eyes are glued to him when he cleans the wound, when he carefully digs the needle in the delicate skin of my stomach, when that hurts like Hell, even when I still try to pull my stomach in and that it makes it worse. I just look at the freckles I can see on his nose, around his eyes... And lick my lips at the memory of his tongue caressing mine.

"Dean ?" I say without realizing it at all, like the need of seeing him look back had taken control of me for a second.

And when lifts his deep astonishing eyes on me, the pathetic pieces of my heart left here miss a beat.

"Yeah ?"

"Nothing" I whisper looking down.

But even with my eyes on my thighs, I can still see his glare on me, like he was hesitating to speak, maybe to tell me how much he regrets, or just wondering how he could have sex with me...

           He wipes his hands on the towel he used to remove the blood on my stomach and starts fiddling with my shirt, wanting to open the buttons still closing my flannel on my chest. I put my hand on his to stop him, shaken by the exquisite intimacy of this gesture.

"We need to get rid of this, and I have to make a bandage, Y/n" he gently states.

"Okay..." I shrug, grudgingly opening my flannel, and putting an arm on my bra to cover it.

           He keeps his eyes down, and I can't decide if this is politeness or disgust. Wrapping a white bandage around my waist he winces.

"Tell me if it is too tight" he asks, his eyes still avoiding to look up.

"I'm okay."

           He gets up and takes a black t-shirt from his bag.

"This is too big for you, it will be more comfortable and not rub the cuts" he states before clumsily putting it over my head, making my hair fall on my face.

An adorable smile appears on his features when I grunt like a child being dressed. He chuckles a little when I push my hair out of my face with both hands.

"I can dress by myself Winchester" I mumble.

"I know sweetheart" he smiles, putting a kiss on my forehead in another chuckle.

My heart drops. He's trying to get back to his old him... Will I be able to do the same ?

 ***

           "How is your stomach, sweetheart ?" Dean says and I take a shaky breath, the nickname taking me by surprise every time.

           Lately, he visibly tries to become my friend again, making jokes, mocking Sam to make me smile, to call our complicity.

"It's healing, I took off most of the stitches this morning, the inflammation is gone" I shrug, taking a sip of whiskey.

Dean searches my eyes for a second, he often does it too lately... Like he was trying to talk to me. But I never give him time, leaving or talking about anything else. I just really can't bare him telling me how sorry he is again.

           The memory of him is burned in my mind, and when I dream of him, I wake up both  soaked between my legs and shaking with pain, unable to bear the craving... So hearing him say it was the bigger mistake in his life, hearing him say he should have left me go home with that bartender... Or hearing all the things I haven't even thought of yet... What ? Maybe he fucked me just to do me a favor, seeing how desperate I was...

My brain comes up with new ways of torturing me every day.

           So even if I'm becoming good at faking I'm just the old me again, the new me, the one who's heart is still in that alley, can't take much more.

"How can you eat that much chocolate, Y/n" Sam says, closing his laptop, when I put an umpteenth chocolate paper on the library table.

"Shut up Sammy" I say with my mouth full.

"Yep... two Deans" he chuckles.

           I swallow hard. Here comes the you're not a true girl, more like our buddy or brother kind of comments again. Before I fell for Dean, I didn't care, it was pleasant even, knowing that they saw me as a close friend ; but right now, it makes me put the chocolate bar I was about to eat down, and clear my voice to push the fragment of my heart that is stuck there.

"Leave her be" Dean grunts. "She's way cuter than me."

I look up and meet a wink, but my attempt to smile dies before it can reach my lips.

"Yeah... not just cuter" Sam shakes his head. "I'm out, I want to go running early tomorrow. 'Night guys."

Guys.

           I fall silent, licking my lips to erase the eventual evidence of my greed. I have to find a way to leave without being too obvious. I don't want to be left alone with Dean.

"You don't have to go..." Dean sighs and I realize I was staring at the exists.

"I know" I shrug.

"Yeah..." he takes a sip of his glass.

About a thousand mystery expressions cross his face, his eyes are dark and tired. Did he lose weight ?

"Whiskey Poker ?" he suddenly grins, hiding everything else behind the light of his radiant smile.

I hesitate. What do I want the most ? Running away ? Or fixing us ? His eyes shine with something that strangely looks like hope. What if he wanted our friendship back as much as I do ? His smile enlighten the room warming me and, despite how shattered it is, my heart can't resolve to disappoint him.

"If you want."

             Dean Winchester is way too good at hiding what he thinks, that's frightening. Bluff has no secret for him, and each time I think I can see his little game, he surprises me.

"You drink two glasses sweetheart" he smiles, pouring two very short shots of whiskey in the little glasses he bought just for this game long ago.

           I only managed to make him drink once in an hour of game, but, while he makes me lose my sobriety, his shot glasses empty in front of him, he keeps sipping at his regular whiskey glass.

"Okay I need to stop drinking" I grunt rubbing my eyes after the first shot, pushing the second toward him.

He drinks it and chuckles. I'm not drunk, but I'm close to it, and I can't afford to let my guard down totally. I'm way too sad inside, I don't want it to show.

"I'm so good at poker" he grins proudly.

"Yeah you're good at pretending" I snap before I can stop myself.

His grin fades and he looks down. For some reason, that hurt him more than it was supposed to.

           I put my face in my hands, unable, with alcohol and sadness, to hide my immediate reaction of regret. That's when I hear his chair, he gets up, and when I push my palm down again, he's squatting next to me.

"Let me see the stitches" he says with a kind look.

"I told you it's fine."

"Y/n" he just murmurs my name, bringing these fucking butterflies to my stomach.

I lift my t-shirt just a little, revealing my skin, free of its bandage. His thumb comes grazing next to the point where the cut was the deepest, where the sutures still hold me together.  There will be more scars, but why should I care ?

           The intoxicating smell of his hair reaches my face. I take advantage of the opportunity that he's examining my healing wounds to stare closely. His skin is like a galaxy of little perfect imperfections, freckles, scars ; he has them on his knuckles too. My love is so loud in my head, I’m afraid he could hear it.

           I had him inside me, I had his lips on mine, I had his marks on me. Now he's just there, a few inches from my face, just a little lower, and I find him intimidating.

"I'm glad those stitches are not too bad, I would have hated myself to damage you more than the werewolf" he smiles and looks up at me.

He's so close now. My eyes roam his face.

"I told you I was okay..." I try to groan, but my tone is weak and a little pleading.

"Maybe… I just wanted to come close" he states.

And something totally unexpected happens...

           He smiles to me. But not that usual friendly smile, not the grin he has when he's proud of a joke too, this is not a reassuring smile, or a comforting one... This is the wrinkled sweet eyes with his head slightly bending on the side.

His flirty smile.

           I'm confused, staring right in his bright green eyes, wondering why this, why now. I'm wearing my old Jurassic Park t-shirt, the one with the crackled logo on the dark grey fabric that was originally black. My hair is falling everywhere and I'm wearing no makeup at all...

           His lips come up slowly to meet mine. And my mind stops.

           One of his so strong hands pushes a strand of hair out of my face to put it behind my ear, and his lips slightly part to catch mine. The instant the pillow flesh of his delicious lips touch mine, a tsunami of emotions drown me.

"Dean..." I manage to say against his mouth, between a warning and a plea.

He breaks the kiss I never gave back and lower his gaze.

"I'm sorry" he whispers.

Getting up, he looks suddenly so tall, his shadow crushing me, throwing me to the darkness again. I can't read his tone, I'm shaking.

"Leave everything like that, I'll clean up, okay ?" he grunts gesturing toward the table. "Have good night sweetheart."

           He just leaves. And I'm so cold...

 ***

           I cleaned up anyway.

           Then, my mind going a thousand miles, I cleaned up the whole kitchen. When there was nothing left to do, I went to my room and cried. Again.

I cuddled one of Dean’s bottle and cried.

I danced with myself and cried.

I spent the whole night trying on clothes I won't ever wear again, just to look at the mirror and wonder what the hell Dean wants… And cried.

Pathetic.

           And came THE dress. I put it on but could never close the zipper completely, so I found that damn girdle, and crushed my ribs again.

           The fucking dreadful pain of it made me stop crying, finally. Like it was holding together me in a way, cutting my breath but keeping me straight. And I'm pretty sure some of my stitches broke under it.

           Eating chocolate wearing this even made me smile.

"Fuck you Dean Winchester" I snapped at the mirror with my mouth full, and still dressed like a lady, I lifted my two middle fingers at myself. "Fuck you !"

           Then I sat on the floor, not sure I would be able to get up again because of that stupid instrument of torture digging in my skin with a special cruelty to my wounds.

           I was feeling dizzy, maybe because of the alcohol, maybe because of the lack of oxygen, maybe it was the pain... But it could also be Dean. My finger grazing my lips, I was totally high on him.

 ***

           I have no idea if I fell asleep or fainted, but waking up on the floor, my back against the door, with that damn girdle pressing so hard on my cuts, is one of the most painful things I have ever done.

           I groan and crawl to lean on my bed, trying to reach the zip with shaking fingers. When I open the tight cage around my waist, a loud painful inhale escapes me. And my hangover reaches my head like a slap. I whine and check my stomach, its bruised again and two stitches broke, but I won't fix this, a little cleaning will do.

           I throw the dress on the floor and laboriously clamber on the bed in a sight. Dean kissed me. Dean gave me the flirty smile, the one I always dreamed of.

Was he that drunk ? I'm too sore and sad to think of this just now, so I open my laptop, and put on some Dr Sexy episodes... I hate that TV show, it's cheesy and inaccurate, but it reminds me of good memories with my best friend...

           After the first episode opening credits, I’m crying again, wondering how many tears that stupid body can hold… But maybe it comes from the soul. Maybe it will never stop.

             One entire season of Dr Sexy loosing patients in appendix removals, but being able to make a heart transplant in a plane about to crash while piloting it with his ex-wife lecturing him...

But all I remember is my fearless hunter wiggling at how nervous he was that the plane would actually crash, stuffing his face with popcorns, sitting with his legs crossed like a kid. And a billionth tear is shed.

             A knock on the door, then nothing. I wipe my face in the sheets. Sighing, I yell to come in, pressing pause on my laptop. Sam’s head shyly appears.

“Hey” he says, rolling his eyes at the chocolate bar paper everywhere.

But he sees the mess in my room and frowns.

“What Sammy ?” I grunt, finding the piece of brownie I have been missing on my arm.

“Dean made burgers… And… there is a hunt, but… if you don’t want to come with your fresh wound…”

“Fuck yeah” I cut him. “I really need to kill something. And my wound is not that fresh Sammy.”

I get up and stretch in a groan.

“Eat without me guys, I’m not hungry. I’m going to take a shower and after that, you tell me about this hunt.”

***

           I enter the kitchen scratching my healing belly through the worn-out Supernatural t-shirt I'm wearing and frown when I touch the bruises there. I found this t-shirt at a Supernatural convention one day. It's absolutely awful : Sam and Dean are drawn on it, Sam looks like a lame boys band playboy with blond hair, and Dean is a mix between a plumber and an ex military redneck. No green eyes beauty, no plumb lips, freckles or dimples... They hate it, I love it.

           There are two plates on the table.

"Here you are" Dean says, appearing next to me, making me jump a little.

I don't want to be alone with him and miss him like crazy at the same time... He’s wearing that red and black flannel I used to steal all the time.

"Where is Sam ?" I ask, trying to look unimpressed and steely.

"Oh come on Y/n ! That shirt is so ugly !" he groans frustrated, stealing a corner smile from me. "Look at that face I have ! I wouldn't even lend Baby to that dude !"

"But Deanie, I'm a fan of that book series" I mock. "I wish I could meet the real Winchester brothers to tell them how brave they are !" I flutter eyelashes, trying to hide my actual limitless admiration.

He laughs, fully, his whole beautiful upper body going back.

"You know you can tell me sweetheart, how much you adore me..." he grins.

"I like Sam most" I shrug to wipe away whet he just said with words.

"Sam ?"

A hint of hesitation crosses his face, then something that looks like anger but not really either. He clenches his jaw and look me from head to toes.

"What ?" I say with a little more anger than I intended to.

"Is it for Sam that you started pimping yourself ?"

My breath got stuck in my throat, and I feel a hideous torsion in my guts.

"Why don't you go play marbles on the highway ?" I snap with my bitch face on despite my will not to show how hurt I am.

I often used to say things like this for fun, but we both are very aware I'm not laughing right now.

"Y/n..." he starts but I ignore him, opening the fridge. "I cooked" he sighs. "I waited for you to eat... Please."

I turn to look at him, trying to understand why this sudden plea, but nothing is readable on his face now. I sit in front of one of the plates and Dean hurries to give me what he cooked like he was scared I could disappear. I look at the burger and frown.

"I can make something else if you want" he says almost shyly.

"No. Thank you" I answer, taking a small bite of the way too big sandwich.

           Dean doesn't talk. During the five minutes it takes for him to totally clean his plate and finish mine after that, he doesn't say a word.

"Y/n" he finally groans when I take his plate to wash it with mine.

I don't answer and put my hands under the hot spray.

"Listen... You're my best friend... Talk to me" he tries again.

This is it. My blood seems to leave my body.

This is the moment he sends me six feet under.

"About what ?" I shrug.

"Did I hurt you ?" he says lower and I feel the tears threatening to betray me again.

He was rough that night, but I loved every second of it. I loved it because I love him and because his body language was more passionate than hungry, and there was nothing selfish in what he did with me. That's how I felt it. But I was wrong. And now his only concern is having hurt my body, when he shattered my soul.

I shake my head no, unable to form words at the moment. My Dean and I are not natural anymore, our friendship is damaged. I will probably forgive him quickly, because of how much I love him, but forgive myself...

"I'm sorry" he sighs, making the crumbs of my heart fall on my stomach.

That damn sentence.

I swallow hard to make the tears fall inside of my throat, and not on my face, but when his palm lands on my shoulder, one of the drops crushes heavily on my hands and I lean on the sink, my knees suddenly painfully weak. While I was cherishing each and every sign that night actually existed, he must have been tormented by regret, maybe disgust. That kills me and nausea pierces my stomach brutally, I feel like a wasp was stuck in my throat.

"I'm really sorry Y/n..." he insists.

"No. I am Dean" I snap, clenching my jaw, my back still on him. "I put on a slutty dress, seduced you and now you regret it. It was low of me, I… It’s past, let’s just not talk about it… Please."

Gathering my courage, I turn to meet his glare and he looks shocked. Wiping my tears with the back of my hand, I try to leave but Dean takes a side step to block me.

"Seduced me ?"

"Let me go..." I sigh, holding back a sob.

"No !" He suddenly raises his voice. "Y/n ! I know I... I shouldn't have... But what you wear is no-… Listen, What happened to you ? I want my Y/n back !"

I burst in tears.

His Y/n… What does that even mean ?

"Your Y/n... Dean, I'm going to become exactly like I was, just..." my voice is strangled. "Give me time to find myself again... A-And stop apologizing for that n-night."

           With a fast and firm hand, he grabs my neck and pulls me to him, crushing his mouth on mine again. His plumb lips claiming mine with what could look like passion if I didn't know better. I close my eyes, like I got another shot of the most powerful drug in the world.

He did lose weight.

           Why is he doing that ? Tears soak my face and my lungs seem to be crushed by the brutal jolts of my heart. This is so unfair.

           I violently push him and my palm collides with his handsome face in a fast slap, powered by the intense pain in my chest. He looks at me with now wet eyes, glowing like emerald and I hold my breath, hitting Dean was never something I thought I would do, because I never wanted to hurt him, but also because it kind of feels like poking a lion.

           He takes a pause and licks he lips.

“I found the number of that bartender, Y/n” he just states, swallowing hard, his pupils dilated like during hunts, in the face of danger.

I still don’t dare moving.

He looks down and takes one of those shaking slow breaths- with his tongue on his lower lip- he takes before becoming cold when he’s hurt. I have seen that a few times with Sam, Castiel, even with his mother. But he never had it with me, things were always easy between Dean and I.

“He seems like a good guy.”

“What are you fucking talking about Dean ?” I say raising my hands in confusion on the side before letting them fall again on my thighs.

“You wanted a guy sweetheart…”

“A guy…” I exhale.

“Didn’t you ? I mean… Avoiding me… us, wearing those clothes, makeup… This g-guy” he stammers. “He plays music and is kind to his mother…”

I search his impossibly green eyes, unable to form a sentence. I can feel how red the contours of my eyes are, burning, big round tears rolling under my chin.

“Why are you crying sweetheart ?” He almost whines. “Talk to me… Right now it looks like you hate me” his voice is low. “Y-you hating me is…”

“I don’t… I don’t hate you Dean.”

I love you.

“Oh really ? Y/n… You… Trying to bring a little spangle in this dark f…” his voice breaks making the rest of my heart fall on my lower stomach in a breaking din. “A-and instead of letting you finally meet a nice guy… I-I…” two clearly defined lines of tears now cut his cheeks. “I ruin that because of j-jealousy. Fucking you in a parking lot like it d-didn’t mean anything…”

“Dean ?” I whisper, confused and lost.

But he doesn’t say anything for a few moments, his hands shaking. What is he trying to say ? Was he jealous of the attention I gave another man ? Why ? Was he hurt that his best friend wanted to spend time on her own ?

           I can't help but see this seducing smile in my head from yesterday, can he fake it ? God I want him to hold me so much, I need him to hold me.

“I l… like the old you better but” a sad smile appears on his face. “I will never stand in your way again sweetheart.” His hand reaches my face and pushes a strand of hair off of my forehead. “You deserve…”

“I did that for you Dean.”

My eyes widen at my own words. My love, my hidden adoration on full display in every one of my words. His hand stops on my face and he frowns.

"Wh-what do you mean, sweetheart ?" he searches my eyes intensely.

I burst in tears, my body shaken by sobs and my tears soaking his hands still resting on my cheeks.

"I..." I try to find my voice but it's strangled by grief and panic. "I j-just wanted you to notice me..."

Dean's face becomes a shade paler and I close my eyes to spare myself of the rejection I will read on it.

"Notice you ? Open your eyes sweetheart..."

I do. His palms are now holding my face completely, because if he wouldn't, my head would fall on his chest.

"N-Notice you Y/n ? How can you think I didn't notice you ?" he gasps.

I can’t answer.

“Y/n… All I see is you. All the time.”

I shake my head, trying to run away, but his powerful hands grab my shoulders.

“Sweetheart… I spend my life looking at you. Do you think I need you to wear pink to see your smile ?”

“Stop Dean” I whisper.

“Y/n, did you… Did you do all this because of me ? Not eating ?...”

“YES DEAN ! PATHETIC I KNOW !” I free my arm. “I’m so desperately in love with you that I would have traded my heart and soul if it was possible !”

“Don’t…” he whines.

He pushes me back and shakes his head, tears still on his face. His breathing becomes short, like he was strangled by emotions.

“Don’t” he pleads, bending to graze my lips. “Please Y/n… Don’t change anything.”

He grabs my face and kisses my tears like he wanted to drink it.

“I… The girls you like…” I try to avoid his kiss, lost in confusion.

“Sweetheart, you’re so wrong” he says, now almost against my lips.

In my head, I can see myself push him, I can see myself hit him, my fists trying to struggle against his chest but my body just doesn’t respond.

“I just wanted to become that girl…” I sob and he kisses my tears again.

“What girl ?” he asks, pushing his large body against me, caging me against the world.

I shake but moan in sobs, my weak hands reaching for his chest with the same fear I would have putting it in fire.

“The girl you notice…” my voice is still strangled by pain. “The beautiful girl you smile at with that flirty smile, Dean… The girl you kiss, the one you w-want, the one you fuck” I sob.

“You’re the girl I tell everything, you’re the girl I run to when I have a nightmare…” he touches my lips with his once, without really putting a kiss there. “You’re the girl I want to spend my nights with even when I have been with you all day…” his lips catch mine so slowly, making me taste the salt on it. “You’re the girl that makes me go swimming at night, that made me celebrate Christmas…” he kisses me again. “You’re the girl I think of when I have another in my arms, in my bed…” I gasp but he crushes his lips on mine, taking my face with two hands, kissing me deep and using his whole body to make me feel it, his hips rolling in an attempt to get closer than possible. “Sweetheart, you’re the girl I love.”

           Is it possible that a shattered heart heals with words ?

           My hands reach for his hair and his breathing fasten. I can feel the tears on my face, still falling, soaking his perfect face. I want him so bad… My own hips roll and I lift one of my leg one his side, spreading it a little for him.

           He breaks the kiss.

“Not like that… Not again.”

I look down and feel the world crash. Regret again ? Why say all those things ? Lies this big ? Dean would never…

“Okay, I get it Dean…”

“No you don’t, Love…” his lips claim mine again. “I wanted you for so long and…”

I moan in the kiss, my heart burning with a fire so delicious ; my fingers dare to pass the hem of his shirt to touch his firm stomach.

“It was not right…” he whines, like he was trying to resist his own body.

His skin is so soft and the muscles of his waist are moving so deliciously to thrust against me, I scratch it a little.

“Y/n, baby…” he moans, making me ruin my own panties. “Let me take you to my room this time… Please.”

I smile in the kiss and nod, but the new nicknames made me dizzy. I push his shirt up, craving to touch the skin I never did. Bending I kiss him, and goosebumps spread from his nostril. He grunts and puts his head back a little, grabbing the back of my hair to encourage my passionate kisses and nips at the skin of his chest, of his stomach.

           When I lick his left nipple, he gasps and lets go of my head to open his belt.

“I need you” he groans. “Y/n… I need to take you to my room… Make love to you like you deserve…”

I nod again, but push my sweatpants and panties down, kicking it when it reaches my feet.                                                                                    

“If someone comes around” he pants.

I don’t answer, sucking a possessive hickey on his neck.

           His lips attack my jaw, and linger on my throat.

“You don’t need makeup…” he moans, his hands coming under my shirt to caress my waist, my stomach, my ribs, and massage my boobs, like he was craving even more than me. “And you don’t need that cage underwear that feels like hard plastic to the touch… You’re… fuck.”

I moan when the shiver roams his body, making his cock twitch. Is it possible that I have so much effect on him ?

           His hands are eager, and the feel of them, huge, powerful, hungry on my bare skin is so overwhelming I think that I could come if he keeps devouring me with those fingers. The self-hate is silent for now, because my Dean wants me, all of me.

           He’s everywhere, lips, teeth, tongue, hands, and his hips pressing his boxer covered erection between my legs. My own juice tickling my inner thighs.

“We have to go to my bedroom” he sighs.

Once again… I nod, trying to push his boxer down with shaky hands.

“Dean…” I plea. “Please… I need…” but he grabs my thighs to carry me and a friction of his hard cock through my naked folds makes me gasp.

My head loudly fall back on the wall behind. I wrap my legs around him like it was their natural place.

“What do you need ?” he moans, rubbing his cock on my entrance and clit again, soaking the fabric.

“Your sk-skin… I want to feel you” I manage to stammer.

He bites my throat and mutters a yes, under his breath.

           Pushing his flannel down quickly, he thrusts once more, and I can feel how close I already am. He grabs the collar of his shirt in his back and gives me what I need : His body.

           I moan and kiss his collarbones, my hands trying to reach every inch of his back and chest at the same time feeling his muscles, his scars, his sweat. Everything.

“I love you…” escapes my lips.

“God Y/n… We need to go to bed.”

“Yes…” I moan, still trying to push his boxers down.

But his hand pushes hard on one of my bruises and I wince. He notices it and takes my shirt off above my head.

“God Y/n…” he groans, seeing the bruises on my ribs.

“Girdle.”

“Never do that to yourself again” he tries to sound firm but with my folds caging his cock between me and himself, he moans again. “Never, Sweetheart… Promise.”

After so many tries, the rubber band of his underwear rolls down, freeing his hard length.

“I promise. I love you” I whisper in his neck.

“I can’t take you like that baby… I need to take you to… Fuck…” he tries but when his hips keep thrusting despite his will, the head of his cock brushes my entrance to go up and crush my clit. My walls clench around nothing and I can feel the coil ready to break. Each friction on the good spots making my thighs jerk.

He groans.

“Dean…” I moan lost in a new kind of pleasure. “Dean…”

I grab his cock, making him gasp, and guides it to my entrance.

“I want to take you to my room” he whispers but I can tell his thoughts are lost.

           He pushes in anyway, stretching me to the brim, twitching hard, his nails digging my thighs. Each inch sends me higher, his cock throbbing like it was swallowing… And when his palms powerfully bring me to him, and he hits my cervix, the coil explodes.

           I come right away, tugging at his hair in strangled gasps, shaking and clenching around him like crazy.

“Y/N !” he screams, letting go of one of my thighs to hold on to the wall.

His body shakes and his cock twitches violently. Biting my neck like he was holding me with his mouth, he thrusts hard three times, prolonging my mind-blowing orgasm. And he comes already. Ropes of cum filling me in a delicious tickle so deep in my core.

           I grab his head to make him look at me, his sweaty face glowing with bliss, still confused by how quick it was. He claims my mouth slowly and his tongue tastes just like love.

“I… I’m sorry” I smile in the kiss. “I couldn’t last.”

“God sweetheart, that’s the hottest thing I ever experienced…” he pants. “The way you come… Fuck…”

           An old fear suddenly hits me and I search his face to find regret in it, my legs still around his waist, holding for dear life with him still buried inside of me.

“I’m sorry Y/n” he sighs and my heart drops. “For… Leaving, I… I was so mad at myself.”

“Mad ?” I put my forehead on his.

“I resisted all this time… Just to give up on jealousy” he confesses, his hot breath on my face.

“Resist…” I murmur.

“You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Y/n… More than what I deserve… Risking that…”

“I love you” I repeat in a held back sob.

“I really should take you to my room…” he smiles lazily.

 *** 

           That girl.

That girl comes out of the diner kitchen, and the second her eyes land on Dean, something changes. I recognize everything now, her back straighten a little and she pulls her stomach in slightly.

           He has this effect on a lot of women.

           She’s really pretty, with silky hair and painted nails. Her waist is thin and her cleavage is both elegant and catchy. But I don’t really care now.

           Outside, the storm rages, summer rain reminding us of the forces of nature during a season so clement, after days of sun. I look out the window, the street lamps multiplied in the thousands drops of water on the glass, like cheap little stars.

           The diner is empty at that time of the night, no one went out under that weather to buy food. But Dean and I, we were already soaked.

“What can I get you ?” the girl smiles wide.

“Two bacon cheese burgers, please” I answer.

Her face searches Dean’s but she finds nothing, because my man is just thinking of how hungry he is, I can hear his stomach rumble. She smiles anyway, her perfect white teeth screaming for attention but Dean wraps his arm around my shoulder.

“Hey baby… You are going to be cold” he mutters.

           I smile and put my head on his shoulder and palm on his stomach. The girl just leaves in a sigh. He still smells like chlorine a little, his wet hair dripping on his neck. Sun made his freckles a shade darker, beautiful. I kiss the scruff on the sharp line of his jaw.

           Our clothes are completely soaked, that’s what you get jumping in a motel swimming pool at midnight, searching coolness after making love over and over again in a room with no AC.

           I stroke Dean’s wrist tattoo with my thumb and he smiles at me, kissing my nose. I have no desire to become that girl anymore. That girl will never know how sweet Dean is, how unconditionally he loves. She will never see him cry, laugh with his whole body. She will never know how he looks when he’s nervous about Dr Sexy’s season final, how he can switch from the biggest dork to the fiercer hunter. She won’t even know who he is, hero, fighter, lover… Mine.

______________________________

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Tags are open (Some tags don’t work even if I tried everything, I’m sorry)

#supernatural #SPN #Supernatural Dean Winchester #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fic #dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean x y/n #dean x reader #spn dean x reader #Smut #dean winchester smut #angst #dean winchester fluff #fluff #jay-and-dean

[luluwquidprocrow]

love, keep your arms around me

originally posted: april 23rd, 2020

word count: 1,849 words

rated: teen

beatrice/bertrand/lemony

family,  fluff and angst,  typical parenting worries exacerbated by vfd,  parenting is hard even when your major worry is not kidnapping, still a soft time,  one instance of language because have you met me

summary: Beatrice is awake, and Violet is not there.

opening notes:

title from monday morning by death cab for cutie

.

Look, people can talk as much as they want about how every single parent out there isn’t perfect and it’s impossible to get through parenting without dropping or forgetting or accidentally injuring your child at least once—those parenting books Bertrand bought sure talked about it enough—but Beatrice has not lived the life of an average everyday person whose only worry is whoops, I dropped my child, well won’t that be an amusing anecdote somewhere down the line! No, Beatrice’s worry is that she is awake, in Violet’s nursery, with the sea foam green trim and little stuffed animal frog from Monty and the tadpole mobile Kit made, she’s awake in the chair by the window with the sun streaming in and her whole body suddenly alert and shaking because Violet is not there.

Violet was awake all night, and how did Beatrice fall asleep at any point? That wasn’t the plan, not by a long shot—she and Lemony and Bertrand had been awake too, trying to get Violet to sleep, and they’d taken it in shifts, and—and then what? What had happened then? She’d sat down in the chair for a second then and now it’s now and where is her daughter?

Beatrice’s vision fills out from where it had narrowed in on Violet’s crib. There’s Bertrand, asleep in one of the chairs closer to the crib, still wearing that ugly yellow sweater he’d been wearing the night before, his arms just limp against his chest and he doesn’t have Violet either.

(She isn’t going to think the obvious line. She is not going to think where is Lemony because she can’t handle that, not right now, she can worry about one thing at a time and if she lets herself even entertain the idea that Lemony isn’t there either, that Lemony’s gone, Beatrice is going to break into pieces where she is.)

Beatrice gets up and shoves Bertrand’s shoulder, hard. “Bertrand!”

He does that terrible father thing, jolting awake as his head turns on an inhale. Bertrand sits up and blinks and blinks and keeps blinking even when he looks up at her.

“Violet, where’s Violet?”

Bertrand stills for a second, and then his shoulders relax and he scrubs a hand over his face. “Lemony has her,” he says, his voice gravely with sleep.

(The part of her that was no not thinking about Lemony is relieved. The part of her thinking about Violet is still ready to hurt whatever she has to, because there’s no way the answer is that easy.) “Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent,” Bertrand insists. He gives her a thumbs up with one hand, still rubbing at his eyes with the other.

“Oh, you sound very fucking confident,” Beatrice snaps. She doesn’t hear Bertrand call after her as she tears out of the room, running down the hallway, because now she has to find Violet and the house is so big, how’s she going to do it?

She tries not to think the other thing, not all the way, even if it’s what’s got ahold of her in the first place, what’s making the terror bursting inside her. Violet’s an infant, they can’t take an infant (how old was Lemony, the day where Jacques insisted he was allowed to finish his tea? How old?), it’s too soon—but no, that isn’t even it, any age would be too soon, and they aren’t going to take her, Beatrice is going to die before they get their hands on Violet—

Say it, the dark part of her whispers, as she slams open doors, the bathroom the music room the upstairs parlor the spare room and no Violet, they aren’t they, they aren’t faceless, they were you, Beatrice—

She hears a sound; her whole body jerks to a halt.

Anything that happens is your fault.

“It’s alright,” someone is saying, just above a whisper. “There are many things out there, and each of them makes a noise, and that one in particular is just a white-throated sparrow.”

Beatrice turns and stares into the library.

There’s Lemony, standing by the big window on the far wall, Violet in his arms, both of them painted with the sunrise, yellow light on the edge of Lemony’s chin and the little swirl of Violet’s hair.

Beatrice takes a few steps forward. She sags against the doorway, her heart still pounding in her chest, and watches.

“Birds are very noisy creatures,” Lemony says, softly softly softly, Violet cradled against his chest and her head turned under his chin so they can both look out the window into the garden. “They have many things to say and need to say them as loudly as possible, which makes them not unlike a good number of people in the world.”

He sounds so serious, and Beatrice starts smiling, her whole face almost crumpling with it. She starts crying anyway, because her daughter is here and her husbands are insufferable and Lemony is so beautifully earnest with Violet. For someone who paced the length of their house practically every day for Beatrice’s entire pregnancy, and who spent the first night she was home doing nothing but crying (although, then again, they all did, didn’t they, three grown adults and one infant smaller than a loaf of bread crying about everything at two in the morning because none of them were going to sleep), he’s the best father. Second only to Bertrand, because so far, Violet only likes it when he sings to her.

(“What can I say,” Bertrand had said, after singing a medley of Sinatra. “Our daughter has good taste.”

“Your daughter is a scoundrel,” Beatrice said.

“Rapscallion,” Lemony had offered. “An infant can’t be a scoundrel.”)

And Beatrice—parenting makes her feel so useless. You can’t barrel headfirst into parenting because everything is so tiny and fragile, your baby is tiny and fragile and how are supposed to hold her without hurting her and what are you supposed to do with her while you’re trying to shower and she doesn’t know where you are and she sees you through the glass on the shower and doesn’t think it’s you and how are you supposed to protect her from danger and life and death and mistakes she didn’t even have a hand in making? You can prepare all you want and think you have it and then you’re being handed your daughter and your whole life is turned upside down. You don’t breathe like you used to. Every inhale catches on a worry; this cord, that knife, those windows, what was that noise? What can Beatrice do that’s anything special, that even makes a difference? She loves Violet with everything she has and what is she supposed to do with that?

She knows it's mostly stress that makes her think Lemony and Bertrand have such a better handle on this than her, because Lemony's voice shakes when he talks to Violet and he looks at her like he doesn’t know what to do, and Bertrand pauses before he talks or sings to her, as if he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. They’re all doing their best and Beatrice knows that, she knows it, she knows they’re all worried but what if the three of them really aren’t enough? This time was just luck, that’s all. What about the next time, because there has to be a next time, there has to be a time when they’ll fail.

And they’d sat around for months and tried to reason it out. They could have a child. They could do it. Josephine and Ike had made them such beautiful ironwork bars that looked like vines for all the windows in the house, they’d decided to never buy Beverly Cleary, none of them slept all at once—or that had been the plan—they knew exactly what they were getting into and that they couldn’t take it back. that night Violet came home, the three of them promised each other she wouldn’t know the fear they all grew up with.

Violet makes a noise, small and uncomfortable, and Beatrice’s heart wrenches.

“I know, I know,” Lemony says. “Life is very difficult, even for a three month old. I understand.”

Violet curls her little fingers into Lemony’s shirt and just keeps grasping the fabric with that tight infant strength, like when she grabs Beatrice’s hair or Bertrand’s thumb. Tiny and fragile and holding on, in her own corner of the world. Like there’s no way she doesn’t feel safe.

There are soft footsteps in the hall behind her, and Beatrice only jumps a little; Bertrand stops beside her, offering an apologetic smile, and that’s just wrong. She opens her mouth to apologize herself, but Bertrand shakes his head. He wraps his arms around her instead, drawing her against him. Beatrice laces her fingers through his and breathes.

There’s so much Violet doesn’t know. There’s so much they haven’t decided if they’ll tell her or not. There’s so many new terrors they keep finding, every day.

But Violet knows all the little things, even now, like, that the faces Bertrand makes always make her smile when she’s crying, that when Beatrice talks about what she’s making for lunch or reads books to her that she hears her mother’s voice, that she likes Monty’s frog near her crib and that she can reach for it when Lemony dances it in front of her, and that she can jam it in her mouth afterwards. Violet knows that Kit’s tadpole mobile moves, and that she’ll (usually.) fall asleep watching it, she knows the sun is warm on her face, and she knows the dark of her nursery is soft because of the nightlight on the wall. And the thing she really, truly cares about, is that there are three people right here who just like to spend time with her.

Beatrice isn’t going to stop thinking about all the ways this can still go wrong. But right now, at least this morning, Violet knows she’s loved, and that’s enough.

She pulls Bertrand forward into the library, coming to a stop beside Lemony, who notices them at last. He starts to look a little guilty and that’s wrong too, so Beatrice shakes her head this time. He still frowns, and his arms shift and then stop, Violet still in them. Lemony leans forward a little and kisses Beatrice’s cheeks, right under her eyes. Then he kisses Bertrand, because Lemony is not one to leave someone out. The sun has risen most of the way now, but it’s still warm by the window. The four of them can see the remaining pieces of the sunrise on the budding oak trees in the garden.

Bertrand—of course—starts humming, still Sinatra, and Beatrice only laughs for a moment before she leans against Lemony’s shoulder and hums along. Lemony joins in and they’re all humming for a little rapscallion, who finally, finally drifts off to sleep.

Then Lemony looks up, his eyes wide. “How do I put her down,” he whispers.

ending notes:

pro tip, just, don’t put the baby down. resign yourself to carrying an infant around for the rest of your days. it’s easier. have you ever tried putting a sleeping baby down after they’ve fallen asleep on you????? it’s a multiple person job and even then. even then. I don’t recommend it.

and apologies to beverly cleary, the true badass who turned 104 last week

#NOW FEATURING PROPER CAPITALIZATION #asoue #a series of unfortunate events

[aggressivelyclueless]

The Day He Died

prompted by @charcoalhawk "Portal au: Danny is alone when he goes into the portal, and that makes it so much worse." Words: 6374 Warning: death, gore, horror, angst

     The noises from downstairs had finally stopped.  That meant it would be another five minutes - ten, maybe - until his parents went up to bed.  He could hear his father tromping up the stairs already (he was not a small man, and he tromped rather easily), and the voice of his mother followed.  She seemed content; his father just seemed tired.  He waited until he heard their bedroom door close, and then threw off his bed-covers and tiptoed to the door that led out to the hall.  The house was pitch-black, but he was undeterred.  He knew which of the stairs creaked, where to step to avoid smashing his toe on the kitchen table, and how to unlock the heavy steel door to the basement without making a sound.  Regardless, he always held his breath as he pushed it open, afraid they'd caught on to him and installed an alarm system or some-such.  They never did.       The stairs to the lab were almost unbearably cold; industrial steel was much less forgiving than carpet or tile, and he scampered down as quickly as he dared (at least the lab itself was heated, he thought - those stairs had always been a bit too drafty).  He peered into the space just to make sure he was alone, counting tools on the wall and shadows across the floor.  A single yellowed lamp stood on the worktable in the corner of the lab; he'd never seen it completely dark down here, which he supposed was for the best.  When he was small, he'd get scared of things in his closet or under his bed where it was dark.  He couldn't imagine what sort of childhood monsters might make their home down here if given this much space.       He flicked one of the work-lamps on, flinching from the little *click!* it made as if either of his parents could possibly have heard it.  He knew, of course, that they hadn't, but even a tiny sound like that cut the silence of the lab and set him on edge.  He glanced upwards.  His parents' room was just on the other side of the ceiling; once he could hear his father's snores from the ductwork that connected the rooms, he would allow himself to plug in the old CD player on the worktable just so that he wouldn't have to be down here in silence.  His CDs, he thought, were so much better than the ones his parents listened to as they worked.  Old seventies hits?  Boring!  He reminded himself, as if this was the first time he'd ever stolen downstairs in the dead of night, to replace the disk when he was finished.  No sign you've been down here.       He turned then to the project at hand.  His father, mostly, had been the one to talk about it; it was particularly easy for Danny to overhear everything he needed to know without saying a word about any of it.  That was what he wanted, and that was why he was down here while his parents were asleep: he was interested in ghost-catching, and did his best to learn as much as he could, but just without saying he was.  Parents, in his mind, immediately made everything lame, and his were no exception.  He'd never hear the end of it - he'd be miserable!  So, in true teenager fashion, he denounced all of it as loudly and as frequently as he felt was necessary to get his point across, and when he was certain no one would bother him he pursued his interests in secret.       He inspected his parents' work first before he dared touch a thing.  It was meant to be a ghost portal, his father said.  Danny wasn't quite sure if putting something like that in one's basement was such a good idea, but his mother had been the one to draw up the blueprints, and she was the one, at least between the two of them, to think her ideas through.  He decided that he'd trust her judgment on the matter.       He found himself wondering what such a thing would be like if it ever came to fruition.  Where could it possibly open up to?  His mother was under the assumption that spirits inhabited a different realm entirely, but she'd admit that she didn't have the faintest clue of what it might look like or how anything might work there.  She'd said that once it was finished, and they'd had a chance to activate it and run some tests, that they'd publish their findings and the Fenton name would become famous.       Danny thought about that a lot.  He sat in silence before the portal as if it were a monument, wondering if he'd get the chance to explore a world inhabited by the dead.  It thrilled him, in the same way that thinking about exploring the depths of space thrilled him, and as the snores of his sleeping father drifted down to him through the ductwork he couldn't stand it any longer.       He had to get his hands on this thing.       He kept the CD player as quiet as he could - he still had to be able to hear if anyone came down looking for him, after all - and turned his attention to the array of tools on the wall.  He saw the jumpsuit that his father had sewn for him - an ugly black-and-white thing, hanging up in the same place it had since its construction.  His parents assumed he'd never worn it, and he knew better than to ask them to sew him a better-looking one.  I'd never hear the end of that conversation, he told himself, glad that he was alone so no one would see exactly how stupid he looked in it.  He'd tried once to pretend it was a spacesuit - and why not? astronauts wore white - but without the helmet he couldn't convince himself, and he'd given up on that little endeavor.  He pulled the suit on anyway.       He pulled the work-lamp over so that it would give him enough light in the tighter space, and turned to an open panel on the side of the portal.  He didn't dare touch anything until he knew what had been done since last time he'd seen it; he came down to the lab only a couple of times a week, since he couldn't afford to stay up all night every night and still be able to function during the day, and he got distracted by projects they left out as often as he got to poke around the portal.  Let's take a look, he thought brightly, sifting through the half of the controls that had already been wired in.  Hey, this doesn't look too hard.  His gaze turned to the soldering iron resting on the table.  They'll never notice that I'm helping them, he told himself somewhat smugly.  His father, in particular, was forgetful; the man could - and often did - lose his tools in his own hands when he wasn't paying attention, and even his mother tended to get so absorbed in her work that she'd forget entirely where she'd left off.       With the soldering iron at the ready, he set to work.  He wasn't as practiced as his parents, but he was always over-careful, and he thought that made up for his inexperience.  He'd told himself once that he was going to start building little things - a miniature ghost blaster, perhaps a simplified version of his father's spirit speaker - to get more experience, but he never did.  He'd even cleared out a space under his bed to stash them away, but just last week he'd shoved a stack of spaceship model kits down there instead.  Maybe he'd crack one of those open over the weekend, he thought.  He'd been saving them for a rainy day, but he hadn't put one together in almost a month now, and it was starting to make him antsy.       He set the soldering iron down and inspected his work.  He almost couldn't tell where his mother's job left off and his picked up; he knew that she'd attribute the job to his father, and that he wouldn't argue about it.  He liked to think that he'd be better than both of them at this one day, but couldn't see it happening anytime soon.  He set the face of the control panel onto the wiring underneath it; it gave an affirming click as it slid into place, and he couldn't help but smile to himself.  If anyone ever found out about this, he'd never hear the end of it - but it was so satisfying just to be involved at all.        He turned back to the open end of the portal.  From where he stood at the rear, it almost looked like it could be part of a lunar station or shuttle; its conical shape gave it an alien air, and a long line of lime-green LEDs across the top reminded him of a set he'd seen in a space movie once.  It made him giddy all over again, and he couldn't stop a grin from spreading across his face.       He wondered how close this thing really was to being finished.  Every time he'd come down, there had been a decreasing number of open panels on the thing, and for the first time, it really looked finished.  His mother had made a comment a few days ago that she didn't know he'd caught - if it wasn't for the radiation inverter I'd almost say we could have this thing done by next week - and he wondered what, exactly, that meant.  He couldn't stop himself, though; he'd have a look at it anyway, even if the tech was starting to go over his head.  He turned to the other side of the portal, decided between two access panels in a brief eeney-meeney-miney-moe, and carefully pulled one open.  He knew at once that it was Jack's doing; how Maddie could ever sort through such a mess on a daily basis was beyond him, but he reminded himself that he was just looking this time, and he didn't have to fix anything.       He found himself pulling half the wiring out anyway.  He held a pair of stripping-pliers in his teeth as he went - man, I don't have enough hands for this - and discarded at least a dozen of Jack's unnecessary work-arounds.  Jeez, Dad, what were you thinking?  I mean, I guess it works, but...        He spotted, mounted by itself in a deliberately-empty corner of the space, one of the four main power cores.  It appeared harmless but he knew better than to touch it; if even his father had left a wide berth around it, chances were good that it would probably electrocute him if he did.  Yeah, no thanks.  I'll pass on that one.  He finished the last of the rewiring, replaced the access panel, and then paused for a moment to sit and think.       What if I tell them I've been coming down?  Maybe they won't freak out too much about it, so long as I tell them up front not to.  They'll be proud of me - I know they will.  With a frown, he shook his head to clear his thoughts.  What was he thinking?  Even supposing Maddie didn't fuss, Jack would pick up the slack and fuss enough for both of them.  You'll never hear the end of it, he reminded himself.  Still, he thought it would be nice to get a little bit of recognition.  Every once in a while, his parents would tease each other about the gremlins in the basement.  They've finished up the wiring in the back, she'd say, maybe there are such things as benign ghosts after all!  She and Jack would always have a good laugh about it.       The CD in the player on the work-table went quiet.  He knew how long the tracks were; it had been forty-seven minutes, which meant nearly one in the morning.  He waited for the disk to spin down to a halt, and then hit play again.  He'd have to finish everything by the time it was done if he wanted to be functional in the morning.  Then again - he'd just had an essay test in first-period, and he supposed that perhaps he could afford to sleep through it.  Half the class did some days.       He turned back to the portal, tearing open another access panel.  Perhaps his parents were right, he thought mischievously; perhaps there were gremlins in the basement.  This particular gremlin, though, was determined not to get caught.  He amused himself with that as he inspected his mother's handiwork.  Hey, so that's what a radiation inverter looks like.  Cool.  Wonder what it does?  He couldn't tell just by looking at it, and he was hesitant to crack it open to find out.  Radiation was awful, and he knew he'd never be able to undo that kind of mistake.  Maybe if I'm lucky Dad will mention it tomorrow.  His eyes slid down to the inverter again.  Maybe so long as I'm really careful, I won't break it.  I just wanna see how it works.       He hesitated, finally reaching out with one finger and giving it a tiny poke.  Nothing happened.  Okay, seriously, you shouldn't screw around with that.  Quit it!  He pulled both hands away, debated internally for a moment, and then set the access panel back in place.  What are you, stupid?  If you don't know how it works don't touch it!  He turned away, eyes tracing the perimeter of the structure so he could find something to work on to distract himself.  Several smaller panels hung open, as if to invite him, but his gaze settled on one that was already partway finished.  This one won't take too long.  It didn't look horribly difficult, and he told himself he really should get back to bed afterwards.  Finishing up a few little things during the night was one thing, but a gremlin could only accomplish so much without risking being noticed - or worse, caught.       Partway through stripping one of the wires, something behind him clicked.  He froze, wide-eyed, and held his breath.  What was that?  I know I heard something.  He turned slowly, suddenly aware of how alone he was.  He couldn't reasonably expect anything to come of it - what, like anyone's heard me down here? - but it didn't stop the what-ifs from crawling into his head.  He thought first of his mother.  What would she say?  He peered around the open end of the structure and to the stairs, knowing that even if he was able to hide inside an empty compartment or some-such that she would still know that he'd been down here.  I'll just finish this up real fast.  Then I'll be done.  He turned back to the handful of wires he was holding - two or three splayed out in between each of his fingers so he could tell them apart - and soldered another one onto the circuitboard.  Hey, maybe I am getting better at this.       He was nearly finished when one of the diodes popped.  The smell of burnt wire made him wrinkle his nose, and he grumbled to himself.  Aw, hell, maybe I'm not almost done.  He turned back to the open lab to hunt down the box of small-computer-parts that he knew was around here somewhere, and maybe set his CD to play through again.  It had come around to the last track, but he decided ultimately that no, if he hit play again it would be quarter-to-three in the morning by the time he got up to bed.  He could get by with little sleep most nights but not that little.       He pulled one of the drawers in the storage cabinet open, the stripping-pliers still held by the handle in his teeth, and began rifling through his parents' things.  He was meticulous, but only to the point where he knew they wouldn't notice anything amiss.  He pulled the box off the shelf, peeked inside, nodded to himself, and turned back to the portal.       It wasn't until his CD player finally went quiet that he noticed it - an unassuming hum, coming from behind one of the access panels.  A wave of fuckor struck him.  Was it doing that before?  Something told him it wasn't, and he realized that, judging by where it was coming from, it was probably the radiation inverter that was making the sound in the first place.  He reached out of the portal and set the pliers down on the work-table beside it, turning to the panel and pulling it open a little more quickly than he had the first time.  Oh shit, I knew I shouldn't have touched it - dear god I hope I didn't break it -       The inverter had begun to glow a soft lime, and Danny panicked.  Fuck, how do I turn this thing off?  He turned back to the circuitry he'd been working on and realized: maybe there was a reason they left this one half-finished.  I'm so fucked.  He knew that he'd have to be quick about it.  He kept one finger on the circuitboard where he was certain he'd started so that he wouldn't lose his place.  Shut the power down, disconnect everything, and blame it on the gremlins.  Yeah, that sounds good -       His heart stopped the second he touched the switch.  Something clicked into exactly the right place behind one of a hundred panels, and electricity coursed through him.  He seized up, unable to let go of the switch even if he were able to tell himself to; the skin on his chest and arms erupted into blisters and then began to burn; something else within the portal activated; the muscles in his back contracted all at once, fracturing his spine in a series of sickening cracks; the hum from the portal increased steadily, feeding on his dwindling life force; his eyes boiled, burst, and streamed down his face; sparks flew from both his hands, burning pinprick holes through his jumpsuit; the charred flesh on his arms and his chest twisted and split open; boiling blood and fragments of viscera spilled from in between the widening cracks; finally, with nothing left, the smoking husk dropped to the floor with a hard thud.       The portal finally roared to life.

      Maddie couldn't sleep.  She'd slipped into dreams for an hour, but something in her startled her awake all at once.  Something was wrong.  She didn't know what, or how she knew - she just knew, and it made her gut twist.  She listened for a moment.  Did someone get into the house?  Had one of the kids gotten sick?  She knew she stood no chance of getting back to sleep unless she checked.  She swung her feet over the side of the bed and onto the floor; tiptoeing over to the door, she glanced over her shoulder to make sure Jack hadn't noticed - he hadn't - and then crept out into the hall.       The house was dark, but that didn't make her feel any better.  She cast a glance down the hall, checked briefly in the bathroom in case either of the kids had gotten sick, and noticed that the night-light over the sink had gone dark.  Have to replace that next time I'm out, she told herself tiredly, turning to the two doors at the other end of the hall where the kids slept.  The reasonable part of her was certain they were fine.  Of course they were fine, she scolded herself.  She still had to make sure, if just to put an end to her unrest.       She cracked open the door to her daughter's room, careful not to make a sound.  Jasmine lay sprawled, one foot hanging over the side of the bed, stuffed bear clutched under her arm.  Maddie refused to intrude further, closing the door behind her and turning to the last door at the end of the hall.  She noticed it had been left cracked open, and she peered inside.       Her heart skipped a beat; Danny was gone.       She froze, momentarily overcome with dread.  Her hand tensed over the doorknob, and her breath hitched.  Where is he?  "Danny?" she whispered, thinking maybe he'd just fallen asleep at his desk.  She leaned further into the room; the desk, too, was empty.  Her hand fumbled for a second before finding the light switch behind her, and she flicked it once.  Nothing happened.  She flicked it a few more times before turning and giving it a disbelieving look.  "Danny?"       There was no answer.       Maddie turned back to the hall, stamping down the what-ifs that had begun to clamor in her head.  Quit fretting - I'm sure there's a reason for this.  Power's out, too.  Better see to that.  She paused at the top of the stairs, giving the door to the master bedroom a glance.  She could still hear her slumbering husband's snores, and she gave herself a disapproving shake of the head.  Christ, Madeline, let the man sleep.  She crept down to the living room, nearly smashing her toe on the side of the couch as she felt for the side of the end table in the dark.  She pawed at the front, pulling the top drawer open, and retrieved a flashlight.  She clicked it once, immediately forced to squint from the brightness of the beam, and then swept it across the room.  Like a photograph, everything was still.  The only thing she heard was her own heartbeat, which had begun to climb up from her chest and into her throat.  Where is he?       Flashlight in hand, she made her way into the kitchen.  Downstairs, she was less concerned about waking her husband or her daughter, and she allowed her voice to carry a little further.  "Danny?"  She could see the back door through the side hall - the fuse box was in the garage, and if the power had gone out she knew she'd have to have a look at it.  Strange, though.  What could have caused a thing like that?  The knot in her gut had settled in, and she was increasingly convinced that something beyond the outage had happened.  She couldn't explain it; she knew it in the same way she knew when Danny was lying - which he didn't do often, bless him - or if Jack had accidentally left the acetylene torch on in the lab after a long day.  Sometimes, there were no explanations.  She had heard that a lot in her childhood but never believed it.  Now that she was a mother, she understood.  Sometimes, you just know.       The door to the laboratory downstairs hung ajar, and a spike of panic pierced her.  She knew she and Jack always kept it locked up when neither of them were there; she even remembered shutting it down for the evening.  A thousand different tragedies echoed in her mind at once, and she tore down the stairs without a second thought.  "Danny?  Danny, are you down here - ?"       She came to a halt at the landing.  The flashlight dropped out of her hands and clattered to the floor, going out in an instant, but it no longer mattered.  An unearthly mist wafted slowly across the floor, creeping out from the far end of the lab; the portal was not only finished but open, and ghastly light poured from the rift.  The mist swirled gently, as if not wanting to be disturbed, and a low hum was the only indicator that the device was mechanically powered.       Maddie was in shock.  Her life's ambitions had just been fulfilled in the middle of the night, and with no forewarning, and yet she could think of one thing and one thing only: what happened to my son?       She was forced into action all at once.  She flew up the stairs, through the kitchen, and up again into the master bedroom.  "Jack!" she cried, flinging the covers off of him, "Jack, wake up!"       Her husband snorted, rising although not awake yet, and turned vaguely to her.  "Maddie?" he mumbled, "What's going on - ?"       "It's Danny, he's - "she couldn't hold herself together any longer, and burst into panicked tears.  "The portal - in the basement - "       Jack was shoved all at once into awareness.  "What?  The portal - what about it?  Maddie, slow down," he rested one hand on her shoulder, knowing that he only had a few moments to calm her before he began to panic too, "What's going on?  Take a deep breath.  Tell me what happened."       Through sobs, Maddie did.  "Downstairs - I went to check on Danny - I thought something was wrong - he must have got into the lab, I know he did - I found the portal - it's open, Jack! - I thought he might have gone through - "       For a moment, Jack was silent.  The Fenton Portal - open?  He had begun to doubt whether that was even possible.  He realized that whether or not it was possible was no longer relevant.  Maddie had said it was.  That was all that mattered now.  He stood, his hand still on her shoulder, and turned.  "Show me."       Maddie complied, still sobbing, and led him downstairs.  The lab door had been left wide open after she'd gone down, and they could see the greenish glow from the portal before they'd even reached the landing.  In the quiet, she was certain she heard things whispering from the other side, and the thought of Danny being with them made her nauseous.  She turned to Jack.  Her voice was just a whisper.  "I told you, Jack.  I know he's in there."       Jack stiffened.  Part of him, at least, hadn't expected to see the thing really be functional at all.  He'd seen it in various stages of construction for months - to think that it had miraculously activated itself overnight was ridiculous, even by his standards, and yet the haunting glow from the gateway itself was undeniable.  If it had been completed under better circumstances, he thought that they would have been celebrating it.  But Danny's in there.  He rarely took Maddie at anything other than her word, and what she'd said had become fact in his mind.  "What do we do, baby?"       Maddie turned to him.  She was scared out of her wits, but the certainty that her son's life was in her hands kept her grounded.  She saw the tools that had been left out, but would ignore them until later; she turned instead to the locked case of ghost weapons they'd built over the past few years.  "I'm going to go in there after him," she told her husband, suddenly deathly calm, "You're going to help me."

      Danny hurt.       His awareness came back to him in pieces.  He only knew he was alone, and that his body was broken.  Quiet things, slippery and distant, whispered to him, but he neither heard nor listened.  Everything was weightless and still; it was as if he could almost go numb and slip a little further back out of existing at all.  Almost.       The pain hit him next.  It yanked him mercilessly downwards, and he was jerked into reality in an instant.  His eyes shot open but saw nothing.  The distant whispers fell silent, as if afraid to be heard, and his scrambled mind fell into sharp and piercing focus.  Everything was dark, save for a thin ring of green in his periphery; he could see the vague shapes of the room ahead of him, shimmering like a reflection, and he knew he had to get there.  He reached slowly, pressed his fingers through the reflection, and hauled himself out of the still-open portal.       He fell, crumpling on the cold metal floor, and lay still.  His mind reeled.  Something had just shifted, but he didn't know what - he scrambled to regain his senses, clutching his head in both hands in an effort to ground himself and for the love of god make it stop I can't do this!  Even the silence was too much.  The periphery of his vision had become a blur, and all he could do was wait for everything to pass.  Eventually, he began to remember what had happened.       The last thing he remembered was the portal.  Something had gone wrong - had there been a malfunction somehow?  He cut through the panic in his mind and tried his best to think.  His eyes swept across the darkened room around him.  The lab.  Had he passed out?  He told himself, for the moment, that he had.  Fragments of the incident came back to him.  He'd activated something without knowing it, and had tried to shut it back down.  The green ring around his vision brightened.  The radiation inverter - had he broken it?  Was that what that was?  Radiation poisoning?  He sat upright all at once, overcome with dread.  Is that why everything hurts?  Am I going to die?  One hand came back up to the side of his head, and his fingers closed around a fistful of hair.  He found he was crying.       I'm not gonna die down here.  He refused to admit it to himself, as if his disbelief might spare his life.  I can't die down here.  The pain had subsided, at least, but the numbness that took its place wasn't better.  The silence of the lab was too deep, as if he expected some mechanism to clatter quietly away and allow him to dismiss it from his attention.  He turned to the darkened space around him, as if he could spot such a mechanism.  The lamp in the corner had gone dark, which struck him almost immediately.  Had the power gone out?  He'd never seen the place pitch-black before.  It took him a minute to realize that he still hadn't.  There was a light on somewhere - he wouldn't be able to see otherwise.  Where was it coming from?  The portal behind him had sealed itself shut, allowing nothing through.  He didn't remember it being able to do that, but shoved that thought out of his head.       All at once, he realized why it was so quiet: he couldn't hear his heartbeat.  Suddenly frantic, he stared down at himself as if there might be any sort of explanation written on him.  What he found was that, along with his missing heartbeat, he wasn't breathing either.  He took a deep breath, thinking maybe he'd just lapsed for a second in his panic, but he knew at once that he hadn't.  It felt suddenly wrong to him - unnecessary, even - and the answer swiftly and mercilessly smashed him over the head.       You're not going to die down here.  You already did.       A spike of terror hit him, bringing new tears to the corners of his eyes, but he shoved the thought out of his head.  I can't be dead - there's just something wrong - maybe it's just radiation poisoning - please dear god I can't be dead -       He forced himself to his feet too quickly, making himself dizzy for a moment, and stumbled across the lab into the bathroom by the stairs.  A wave of overwhelming nausea hit him; his insides twisted in unison, making him double over.  Sickly sweat beaded his forehead.  He shut his eyes against it, willing it to pass.  After a minute, it did, and he set a hand on either side of the sink and pulled himself back up to his feet.       The face staring back at him in the mirror wasn't his.  The first thing he caught was a flash of green in the dark, and he turned back, startled.  He remembered he could still see, even without the lights on - the rings in his periphery had begun to glow on their own.  The color had drained from his hair, leaving it death-white, and two sharp fangs protruded from the corners of his mouth.  Even his jumpsuit had been rendered in reverse - he stared in disbelief at how utterly unrecognizable he'd become.  One gloved hand came up to the mirror, fingers resting on its surface.  It had finally fully registered in his mind.       You're dead, Danny.       Something clanked in the lab, and he whirled around.  What was that?  He peered through the half-open door, scanning the space around him, but saw nothing.  He crept out slowly, and a second later another clank echoed through the space.  An impossibly bright rectangle blinded him; he realized it had come from upstairs.  Someone - one of his parents, probably - was coming down.       He remembered a second later that his parents were both ghost hunters, and darted under the corner table in a panic.  He couldn't let them see him - please, not like this! - and when the fluorescent lights clicked on, he shrank further into the shadows.  The storage cabinet provided a small corner for him, and he curled up as tight as he could in the hopes that they wouldn't see him.  Even his legs had fused into some taillike abomination, and he grabbed the end of it in both hands to keep it under control.       He heard his mother's footsteps descend into the lab.  He could see the muted teal of her jumpsuit a moment later; she grabbed something off the worktable, turned to face him, and paused.       Danny held as still as he could.  Please, just leave me alone.       After a long silence, she turned and headed slowly up the stairs.  The door swung shut behind her, and the lights finally clicked off.       Danny let himself loose.  He knew he couldn't stay; he'd be found out, and probably hacked to pieces.  Just the thought made his stomach turn.  What am I gonna do?  He thought of Sam and Tucker.  Assuming he made it out to either one of them - would they even be able to see him?  What if they couldn't?  How was he going to get to them?  Could they even still be friends afterwards?  Was he doomed to wander the earth alone?  No, please, not by myself - !       He curled back up again in the shadowy corner under the table.  Maybe he could explain to his parents what happened.  Maybe they'd understand.  Maybe they'd help him - but what if they didn't?  Where could he go?  He couldn't leave everything behind like that; he realized grimly that he didn't have much of a choice.  He'd died.  It had been decided for him already.  He was completely on his own, and he'd done it to himself the second he'd touched the switch.       He didn't find any comfort.

      Danny woke to find himself in his room.  Everything came back to him through a haze of green - the accident, how he'd died and become a ghost, the intense terror when he'd found out - and he bolted upright.  His gaze swept the room in a panic - how did I get up here? - and he took a deep breath to try and calm himself down.       Breathe.       He looked down at himself.  He turned his hands over.  Flesh and bone.  He remembered his ghastly reflection in the mirror downstairs, and how monstrously inhuman he'd been.  He reached one hand slowly up to his mouth, and ran one finger along the front of his teeth.  Did I dream all that?  He'd been so unwaveringly certain that he hadn't - but no trace remained that it had been real.  He turned and glanced out the window; morning sunlight streamed in, casting bright rectangles of warmth across the floor and the corner of his bed.  Everything was right.  Things felt right.  Maybe it had just been a nightmare.       The door opened.  It was Jazz; the little "oh!" she made when she saw him said that she clearly hadn't expected him to be awake.  "Danny - are you feeling okay?"       Danny looked back down at his hands again.  "Well - I don't know, I - "       "You were missing for two days," said Jazz quietly, taking a seat on the foot of the bed.  She kept her hands clasped in her lap, and wouldn't meet his eyes.  "We were all really worried.  Danny - what happened?  How could you disappear like that?"       Danny's heart skipped a beat.  "Disappeared?"       "You don't remember?" Jazz asked, turning to him, "Mom said you vanished in the middle of the night - she had started to think you were dead.  Can't you remember anything?"       I guess I thought I was dead too.  Danny shifted uncomfortably.  "I - I don't, not really."       "Not even the part about the ghost portal?" Jazz pressed.       "Ghost portal?" said Danny.  He remembered a fair amount about it, but hesitated before opening his mouth again.  How much could he say?  His parents had been worried - Jazz too, for that matter - and he knew he had to tell them something.  He supposed the truth was better than nothing.  "Jazz, listen.  I think I really screwed up, I - "       Jazz just nodded, as if she already knew what he was going to say.  "You finished it, didn't you?"       Danny faltered.  "What?"       "That's how Mom found it when she was looking for you," she explained, "You took out the power on the entire block for seven hours, but you got the thing to work."       Danny was silent.       "Mom thinks it must have sucked you in when it activated," said Jazz, "That's the realm of ghosts, Danny.  No one's ever been in there before.  You don't remember anything at all?"       Danny's stomach turned.  Maybe it would be better to say that he didn't.  Slowly, he shook his head.  "No."       "That's okay.  We're just glad to have you back," Jazz leaned over, giving him a sisterly hug, and then turned to the door.  "I'll let Mom and Dad know you're up.  I'm sure they'll be happy to see you."  She gave him a little smile, and trotted downstairs.        "Yeah," said Danny absently.  His mind was turning over the accident.  Had he really been dreaming?  Everything was clouded in his mind.  He'd felt different, almost surreal.  It must have been a nightmare.  The accident had opened up the portal, like Jazz said, and he'd passed out.  It had been just a nightmare.       It wasn't until one of his hands faded and disappeared for a moment that he realized it hadn't been.

#danny phantom #phic phight #phic phight 19 #team ghost

[lordofassgard]

Dusk ‘Till Dawn

Requested: | yes | no |

Pairing: Theo Raeken x f!Reader

Summary: kinda Based on Dusk ‘Till Dawn by Zayn ft. Sia

or

Two broken messes end up safety-pinning each other’s souls back together

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, abuse and murder, cursing

Word Count: 4.6k+

A/N: I wrote this for @steph-oliveira, she’s one of the nicest people I’ve met in here and I’m really sorry this took me so long to do. I hope you like it  💕

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 Note: Theo is not a werewolf in this. The supernatural doesn’t exist in this au

You always thought you’d leave Beacon Hills. You always thought about the day you’d finally leave your horrible family behind and never come back. Yet, you never guessed it’d happen in the way it did.

One quiet night in July you sat in your room when a knock on your door tore your attention from the book in your hands. You got up and went to open the door, surprised to see Theo’s large frame. He looked around uneasy putting you on edge.

“Can I come in?” He asked before you could say a word.

You moved, giving him enough space to walk in noticing how he looked outside again as if there was someone watching him, or at least he thought so.

“What are you doing here?” You asked trying not to sound rude as you closed the door.

Something was off about him. Every noise outside made him jump and he kept looking out the window.

“I came to say goodbye.” He finally turned to you.

“What?” Your eyes widened at his statement.

“I’m leaving.”

“I got that part. But where are you going?”

“I...I don’t know. All I know is...that I’m not coming back.”

Was he moving away? No, he wouldn’t be so paranoid if that was the case. You were growing worried and you weren’t enjoying the anxiety his presence was bringing you. In any other situation, the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears and dilated pupils would be for different reasons and you’d be thrilled with his presence but not in that moment. Something was up and he wasn’t telling you.

“Theo, what’s going on?” You asked softly as you slowly walked closer to him.

“I...I can’t say. And you can’t tell anyone that I was here” He exhaled.

“Theo...what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

Whatever it was, it was serious. You had never seen him like that, Theo was usually so calm and collected.

“Promise me.” He grabbed you by the shoulders a bit too roughly and shook you.

You tensed up and he immediately let go of you, taking a step back.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled and ran a hand through his blond hair clearly frustrated with himself.

“I-I won’t but…”

You were interrupted by the sound of keys right outside your front door. Your eyes widened and you shoved Theo upstairs and told him to hide in your room with a promise you’d explain later. Luckily, the amount of time it took your father to successfully open the door, gave Theo enough time to hide.

Your father stumbled through the front door, the door hitting the wall from the force he pushed it with. He reeked of alcohol and nicotine, a smell you were used to, unfortunately. His half-open eyes landed on you and he brought one of his hands up to point at you.

“Where is he?”

“Who?” Since the door was still open, you saw Theo’s car parked in the driveway.

You mentally cursed yourself for being so careless. When it came to Theo Raeken, you were completely defenseless. You’d follow him straight into Hell if he asked you to. But once he shows up at your door, tears in his eyes that he tried to hide from you and looking so worried, nothing else in the world mattered. He’d do the same for you.

“Where is he?” Your father yelled, stumbling towards you.

“There’s no one here.”

“Liar.” The same hand he used to point at you, hit you in the face making you take a step back and your back hit the wall.

You held you now throbbing cheek as you looked at your dad through your hair.

“You think I’m stupid?” His fist contacted with your jaw making you groan in pain.

He kept hitting you in the face, torso, legs, everywhere. At some point, you slid down on the floor and he just started kicking you as he yelled insults at you. The only thing you could do was silently cry as you laid on the floor in a fetal position with your arms over your head.

“You’re just like your mothe…” He was interrupted and you heard a loud thud.

You slowly lifted your head finding Theo on top of your father punching him repeatedly. He had no chance of defending himself, the alcohol slowed down his reflexes. With the little strength you had left, you got up and pulled Theo away when your father was knocked out. Blood was splattered on the floor, on your clothes, on Theo’s clothes and your father’s clothes. Not a single ounce of you felt bad for the man lying unconscious on the floor, but you felt that you had to stop Theo. Not for you, not for the man who had beaten you for years, but for the only person who ever did something to help. Theo wasn’t getting his hands bloody because of you.

You looked away from your father and made eye contact with Theo. His fists were clenched, his breathing heavy and there was an unknown emotion in his eyes that scared you. Without saying a word, he got up from the floor and lifted you up carefully not to hurt you and walked upstairs to your room. He sat you down on your bed and started rummaging through your closet, getting clothes out on the bed.

“What are you doing?” You asked as he moved around.

“You’re not staying here. You’re coming with me.” He didn’t even glance at you, too focused on his task of getting everything you’d need in a short amount of time.

Theo managed to find a suitcase and shoved all the clothes he had gathered in it, in the end struggling to close it. Then he disappeared into the bathroom, returning seconds later with the first aid kit.

“Can you move?” He asked softly and you nodded.

He motioned for you to get up and you did, following him downstairs and out the door into his car. You glanced at your father still lying on the floor, in the same position Theo left him one last time and closed the door. Before you got in Theo’s car, you looked around hoping your none of your neighbors had realized what was going on. Luckily, everything was quiet.

You hoped in the passenger seat and Theo started the car, quickly driving off. As you watched the house you grew up in getting smaller and smaller through the side mirror, you couldn’t help but silently cry. You weren’t sure when you were coming back, at that point, you weren’t sure of anything but you were better off with Theo.

He glanced at you, but didn’t say a word and kept his eyes on the dark road. Yet, you could sense he wanted to say something from the way his bruised hands gripped the steering wheel. He was probably trying to get his thoughts in order before he said something he’d regret.

After a while, your cries turned into sobs making you shake curled up in the passenger seat. You felt a hand engulf one of yours, the warmth of Theo’s skin contrasting against the cold radiating off you. As you looked up at him through your lashes, he squeezed your hand reassuringly and gave you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

Yet, you had a feeling he didn’t believe it either.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・

Three days went by since you and Theo left town. You had pulled over at a couple of gas stations to go to the bathroom, get some food and change the bandages on your face and torso. Your bruises were fading to an ugly yellow mixed with blue and small red and purple dots. Every time you had to get out of the car, you wore a hoodie to cover your face and kept your eyes on the floor.

The two of you hadn’t spoken much, you had no idea where you were going and for the indecisive look on his face when you approached an exit in the highway told you that he didn’t know either.

You wanted to ask why he left town. The question had been sitting in the back of your head, slowly making its way to the front the more time passed.

On the fourth day, he decided that it was better if you got a motel room. Taking turns to drive left you exhausted and the both of you needed a full night of sleep. You stayed in the car as he checked you in. When he got back with the key, he carried your bags to your room.

As soon as you opened the door you were met with a weird smell, you would’ve stayed outside if you could but the hungry look you were from the middle-aged man from the room across yours made you think twice. The yellow lights flickered when you turned them on, giving the room a creepier vibe. Your eyes landed on the single bed and you frowned at the sheets who were probably white many moons ago. There was a small bathroom, its ajar door allowed you to peek inside from where you were standing. There were wall tiles missing and some things written on the bathroom door. For a second you thought that someone had definitely died in that room but you quickly shook that thought out of your head in order to be able to sleep there.

“I’m sorry this isn’t a five-star hotel but...I only brought money for one and this is more low profile.” Theo apologized once he set the bags down.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” You forced yourself to smile.

“You can change in the bathroom.” He looked up at you.

You opened your suitcase and got the first (and probably only) pair of pajamas you found before going to the bathroom. Once you got out, Theo was sitting on the bed in nothing but a pair of black sweatpants and a white t-shirt that clung onto his back, making him look even better. You had to stop for a second, allowing your eyes to travel down his figure before you walked over to your bag placing your dirty clothes inside some random bag you found there.

“Theo?” You called softly once you closed your suitcase.

He hummed a response, his gaze fixated on something outside the room’s only window.

“Why did you run?” You sat on the other side of the bed, your backs facing each other.

You heard him take a deep breath and then heard some shuffling. Turning around, you faced his back once again. His shoulders were tense as he ran his hand through his hair tugging at its roots. You were about to open your mouth to tell him that he didn’t have to explain himself if he didn’t want to but he beat you to it.

“I-I killed someone.”

You froze. He what? His words echoed in your head for a few seconds before you could even react. How were you supposed to react? How were you supposed to react when the boy you liked, maybe even loved, just dropped a bomb like that on your hands?

Fearing your silence, Theo slowly turned, finally facing you, only to be met with your wide eyes and open mouth. He opened his mouth a couple of times, only to close it every time, not really knowing what to say. It wasn’t every day he told the girl he liked he killed someone.

Your reaction, or lack of it, was driving him crazy. He’d rather have you screaming at him, crying, running out the door, anything. But you were just frozen, unable to give him a proper reaction.

“You what?” You finally asked, quietly, when the initial shock passed.

“I...I didn’t mean to. It was self-defense.” His hands nervously fumbled with the ends of his shirt.

Finally looking at him, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. So he was running from the police and it wasn’t some sort of teenage rebellion against his parents to prove a point. You sat four days in a car with a criminal. You sat four days in a car with a criminal because he dragged you with him. If the police found you, you’d go to jail too. Anger coursed through our veins and you clenched your fists.

“Then why the fuck did you bring me?” The low tone in your voice made him flinch.

Never, in all the time he had known you, he heard that tone in your voice. It seemed cold, distant and somehow angry but without showing it. He decided immediately that he hated it, it didn’t suit your usually calm and sweet personality. Theo wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at some twisted version of you that he somehow felt responsible for creating.

“I...I couldn’t…” He stumbled with his words “I couldn’t leave you there. The...the way your dad treated you…”

You opened your mouth to speak but your mind was blank. You appreciated his gesture, if you had stayed back at home, you didn’t even want to think what would’ve happened to you. But at the same time, it was reckless. He could get both of you in jail.

Your mind was racing and you had no idea what to do. Should you stay? Should you leave? What did you want to do? What was best to do? And why were your head and your heart telling you different things? Getting up, you walked towards the door, not once looking back at the poor boy’s frown.

“I need to get some air.” You announced as you opened the door.

“I did it out of love.” Was the last thing you heard before you closed the door.

It took a few minutes for your brain to process what he had said. It was only when you got to the car that his words hit you. He loved you. Theo Raeken loved you. In any other situation, you’d be thrilled but in that moment it only made things harder. Leaning against the hood of Theo’s car, you looked up at the night sky. The cold night air wasn’t helping clear your head, it only made you shiver.

You started weighing pros and cons. Were you safer with Theo than you were back home? Yes. Was it risky to be with Theo? Definitely. Was the risk worth it? Perhaps. It shouldn’t be hard to decide. You should listen to your brain and go home, even if you didn’t know how to get there. But your heart, that bastard was screaming so loud you couldn’t even listen to your brain even if you wanted to.

After what it felt like an eternity, when in fact it was probably half an hour you decided to go back to your room. Placing your hand on the doorknob, you hesitated to open the door. How were you going to confront him? After his confession and your reaction, things would certainly get weird. You took a deep breath before opening the door, scared of what you’d find on the other side of it.

Theo was in the same place, his hair messy probably from running his hands through it too many times. He didn’t look up at you, his gaze stayed on the carpet by his feet as he sniffled every couple of seconds. It was painful to see him like that. He looked so fragile, so messed up and you just wanted to make it better. You walked over to him and sat on the bed next to him, so close your knees touched and wrapped your arms around his torso engulfing him in a hug. Theo wrapped his around your shoulders and hid his face in the crook of your neck as he sobbed.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled after a few minutes.

“It’s okay.” You reassured him “It’s okay.”

No other words were spoken that night, there was no need to do so. Actions spoke louder than words and the fact that you decided to stay gave him all the answers he needed. The two of you were together for the worse or for the best and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Next morning, you woke up with a sore neck due to the weird position you slept in. Theo was moving around, his hair still wet from the shower. When he noticed you were awake, he smiled at you.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.” You stretched.

“I’m going to get us some food, I’ll be right back.” Theo announced before leaving and closing the door behind him.

While he was gone, you decided to take a shower. The not so hot water, helped you relax and it felt great after spending so long on the road. When you were getting dressed in the bathroom, you realized you forgot a shirt. Since Theo was still gone, you got back to the room and grabbed your suitcase placing it on the bed while looking for a shirt in nothing but a bra and jeans. You cringed as your bare feet made contact with the dirty carpet but you focused on finding a shirt first. While you were going over your bag, the door opened and Theo walked in. He didn’t even notice you at first as he tried to close the door without dropping the food he was carrying. While this happened, you were in shock. He got back too soon (or you took too long) and your mind was blank. You didn’t have the instinct to get anything to cover yourself with, you just froze.

When he finally looked at you, he frowned. You probably looked like a deer caught in the headlights, yet that was not the reaction you expected from him. At least a smirk, or turning around or dropping the food, not a frown. He set the food down on the table and walked over to you, the frown still evident on his face. Your breath hitched in your throat and your heartbeat got faster against your ribcage the closer he got. He finally stopped a few inches in front of you, his eyes locked not on your chest but on your collarbones. His fingers gently brushed against a place near your bra strap as his frown deepened. You hissed and pulled away, looking down at one of your bruises. Funny thing was, after all that happened you almost forgot they were there. Looking at Theo through your lashes, his blue eyes met yours and his features softened.

“I’m sorry.” His eyes flickered between your eyes and your lips before setting on your lips “I should’ve…” He paused “I should’ve made a better job at protecting you, I…” He looked into your eyes again.

“No, no.” You cut him off “It’s not your fault.”

His hand dropped back to his side and he closed his eyes. You placed your index finger under his chin, making him look at you.

“I’m the one who should be sorry...for what I said last night. I was surprised and I-I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I understand.” He reassured you with a smile.

Silence fell in between the two of you. Theo was still right in front of you, his eyes focused on your lips and you were still half naked. You felt his warm breath against your face and closed your eyes when his nose bumped against yours. You licked your lips and waited. It was happening, Theo Raeken was going to kiss you. After months of liking him, you were finally going to kiss him. His lips brushed against yours to see if you’d pull back. Once he was sure that you wouldn’t, he finally kissed you. You surprised yourself by how quickly you kissed back. His mouth was warm and his lips were softer than you could’ve ever imagined. Your hands clenched his shirt and he brought his to our face deepening the kiss. A low growl came from his throat as you parted your lips allowing his tongue to slip between them.

A knock on the door made you pull away from each other, startled and out of breath. You looked at the door over Theo’s shoulder, mentally cursing whoever was on the other side of it. Theo sighed and cursed under his breath as he turned around and got something from his bag before handing it to you and telling to go to the bathroom. He walked towards the door but only opened when he was sure the bathroom door was closed.

On the other side of that door, your head was spinning as you clutched the fabric he handed you. You put it on and blushed once you looked in the mirror and realized it was one of his hoodies. You had worn his clothes before, to cover your face, but your face was back to normal, no longer bruised, you could’ve worn one of your hoodies. Your blush deepened when you noticed your swollen lips from kissing him and remembered that his looked the same once you pulled away from each other.

When you got out of the bathroom, both suitcases were by the door and while the man from the front desk stood on the doorway, arms crossed over his chest with a frown on his face.

“You should’ve checked out at 9 am.” He spat.

You glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand, probably the most advanced piece of technology in the room, seeing that it was only 9:10 am. Raising your eyebrows at the angry man, you found his eyes already on you, something that made you uncomfortable. Theo noticed it too, grabbed the suitcases and made sure to bump into the man’s shoulder when he walked past him. You were right behind him, trying to put as much distance between you and the man.

Once you were back on the road, you looked at the food Theo bought.

“Where did you get this from?” You asked slightly disgusted.

The food looked dry and it had to be at least two days old.

“Vending machine.” He answered, not taking his eyes off the road.

You grabbed a sandwich and a water bottle before asking him what he wanted.

“How are you gonna eat this waffle if you’re driving?” You asked before you bit into your sandwich.

“I’ll pull over or something.” He shrugged.

An idea popped into your head and you smiled. Theo didn’t seem to notice, still focused on the road. You ripped the plastic and broke a piece of the waffle, bringing it up to Theo’s lips. Without hesitating, he ate it. Sometimes he’d bite your fingers making you giggle. You ended up forgetting about your own food as you fed him pieces of the waffle, the blush that had installed itself in your cheeks having not moved since you kissed back in the motel.

“Where are we going?” You asked when you noticed the road you were taking was empty.

“I have no fucking clue.” He sighed.

“We should head south.” You suggested.

“Why?”

“To cross the border. And we should ditch the car, we don’t know if they’re looking for us.”

He looked alarmed when you mentioned ditching the car. You understood why. How were you gonna keep going without a car? And it was his car after all. He probably had so many memories of it, some of them with you, others with his other friends and family. The first time he drove it, the first time he slept in it probably too drunk to drive back home. We don’t love things for what they are, you realized, we loved them for the memories we made along the way with them. In some way, it’s the same thing with people. You knew that the fact that he left Beacon Hills was still haunting him. He left his family, his friends, the town he was born in and maybe the most important thing, his innocence. Theo had left Beacon Hills with blood staining his hands, quite literally and you knew that was something that he’d carry with him for the rest of his days.

On the other hand, you didn’t even look back once you saw the “you’re leaving Beacon Hills” sign. Maybe if the circumstances were different, if you had grown in a normal environment you’d probably miss your hometown as well. Maybe there would be no need for you to leave in the first place.

Silence filled the car after your words. He knew that you were right, the chances of you getting caught were fewer if you followed your plan. And you had to do it quickly before the police put out an alert and the two of you would never make it past the border. You grabbed his hand and squeezed it reassuringly, smiling as you felt him intertwining your fingers.“We’ll be okay.”

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・

The front door opened and you heard Theo’s voice and small giggles.

“Daddy!” Your son, Thomas, screamed and you heard his small footsteps.

You got up from the couch and walked over to them smiling. Theo was carrying Thomas on his hip as the little boy told him about his day. As soon as Theo’s eyes landed on you, he extended his free arm towards you with a smile.

“How are my girls doing?” He asked as he planted a kiss on your lips and rested his hand on your swollen stomach rubbing it gently.

“We’re doing fine. She’s a bit restless today though.” You placed your hand on top of his and leaned your head on his shoulder.

That night, while you were making dinner, you spaced out. Hearing your son’s laugh from the other room got you thinking about the times where it was just you and Theo trying to get where you were today. From the moment you left your old house in Beacon Hills until you settled in your small house in a quiet town in Mexico where luckily for you, no one asked questions. Everyone was friendly, there was lots of space for Thomas to play and the three of you loved it. A lot had happened before you settled down. So many small jobs in towns you’d rather forget the names so that you could afford to keep moving. Always laying low and hoping no one would ask questions. You got fake identities but decided to keep your first names. Now it felt peaceful, it felt right.

Later, after you tucked Thomas in, you stayed in his room watching him sleep, knowing that any of your children would have to go through what you did to find comfort. You made it, things were okay now. Theo showed up behind you, hugging you and resting his hands on your belly.

“He’s all grown up.” You smiled down at the sleeping toddler.

“It feels like it was yesterday that we got here.” He rested his head on your shoulder, his stubble tickling your skin.

“I like it here.”

“I like it anywhere, as long as you’re with me.”

You turned your face so that you could look at him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

In the end, you were right. Things were going to be okay, things were okay, things would always be okay as long as the two of you were together.

feedback is appreciated :) i’d link my ask box but tumblr is a dick

#teen wolf #theo raeken #theo raeken imagine #theo raeken x reader #teen wolf imagine #theo raeken smut #theo raeken fluff #theo raeken one shot #theo raeken angst #theo raeken imagines #teen wolf angst #teen wolf fluff

[kurly-quill]

Robin’s Nest Cafe (part 1)

So, here goes nothing! This will probably have more than one part, but will likely be non-chronological. 

Pairings: JayTim, maybe future JayDickTim 

Rating: Mature for Language [for now] 

Coffee Shop AU (sort of), Civilian!Tim (mostly?)

         Part 1 - Part 2

(1) Hot Chocolate

The first thing to know about Gothamites, is that they are objectively, irrevocably rude as fuck.

It’s not like New York City, where people bustle past without so much as a nod of acknowledgement because they have somewhere to be and don’t have time for pleasantries, or the aggressive shoving on the metro in Tokyo, or God forbid, like Metropolis, where people born past 1930 still tip their hats at passerby.

No, the average Gothamite would see you, without an umbrella, soaking wet, and shake their umbrella off on you on the way inside. If you gave up your seat to an elderly Gothamite on the train, they would sooner say fuck you than thank you. If you tried to mug a Gothamite, they would probably punch you in the face and steal your wallet, because, hell, you’d be the fifth person to try it this week.

And Tim, for all of his “good breeding” and “respectable upbringing” is, at his very core, a Gothamite.

His smile is so wide that he’s baring teeth, and while it doesn’t match the snarl on the face across from him, it’s no less able to convey the sheer amounts of fuck you very much, have a fucktastic day!!

“I ain’t sayin’ it again -” the man bellows, spit hitting Tim’s face and, ew, probably his lips too, “- give me the money inna register ‘afore things get ugly!”

His eyes glimmer with the sharpness of the icicles hanging outside along the shop window, barely sparing the knife shaking under his chin a second glance.

It’s 11 pm on Friday night, and the cafe is still open because Gotham never really sleeps and Tim lives above the shop, anyway. Behind Knife Guy, there’s a few people in line, displaying varying degrees of concern.

(1- was born in a Gotham alleyway, please if you’re going to stab the cashier just do it I’ll pour the coffee myself, 5 - been in Gotham for awhile, kinda worried but Killer Croc smashed my car last week and I just really need a coffee, 10 - visiting Gotham for the first time this weekend-- and the last time.)

Tim looks skyward, praying for strength. There are cobwebs up there he’s never noticed.

“Sorry, the money in the register is a seasonal flavor. But hey, bright side, we’ve just got peppermint mocha back in, so I can ring you up for that instead?”

Knife Guy gapes for a second, squinting at Tim like he expects him to start tap dancing any second now. Tim raises a brow, patient. With a frustrated snarl, the knife jolts forward enough that it clicks against Tim’s nametag, chipping at the edge of the black and yellow batman sticker beside his name, which is his favorite sticker so excuse you.

“Look, I’ll make you a deal. Either you put away the knife and order a peppermint mocha with christmas tree sprinkles, and we pretend this never happened, or we do it the less fun way, with the GCPD. Who are a total buzzkill, by the way, believe me. Your choice.”

There’s an eye-twitch, and a change in the man’s expression that makes Tim’s finely-honed Gotham instincts go “oh damn, here we go”, when someone opens up the front door with far too much strength, the glass rattling with the force of its inward swing. The freezing night wind billows in, the scent of oil and snow filtering through the warmer scents of the cafe. There’s an unceremonious tinkle of the bell dangling on the doorframe, and beneath it stands another man.

Tim stares. Knife Guy stares. One of the customers looks up from her phone, groans long and loud, grabs her triple-espresso hazelnut latte with caramel drizzle, and walks out into the late-November chill.

The Red Hood holds the door open for her, because he’s a fucking gentleman.

The door swinging shut with another tinkle, and there’s a pause filled only with catchy holiday jingles that have been playing over the radio since September. Hood surveys the scene before strolling toward the counter.

“Damn, lemme tell ya, it’s cold as fuckin’ balls out there,” Hood laments, with absolutely zero prompting, rubbing his hands together as though he’d gain any friction through the gauntlets. He stops just short of where Tim and Knife Guy are facing off, the blade hovering threateningly in the air just under Tim’s chin. Hood cocks his head.

“Am I interrupting somethin’?”

Tim takes a quick second to make sure that, if he opens his mouth, his jaw won’t hit the floor, before he replies, “Just regular customer service in Gotham. Hope you’re not here for the money in the register too - We’re fresh out of stock. Moving onto the Winter Menu, you know?”

Hood nods, making what sounds like an understanding hum through the voice synthesizers, “Some people just never check the website. Read you’ve got a mean gingerbread latte on special.”

Tim would respond, except now the knife is shaking to a worrying degree– Knife Guy is scared shitless, because the Red Hood is nearly shoulder-to-shoulder– or, well, shoulder-to-bicep with him, because the man is huge and smells very distinctly of cigarette smoke and blood. Tim would sympathize if he wasn’t having an internal fangasm to end all fangasms at this moment.

In a display of panic-borne, truly ballsy stupidity (unfortunately, also a common trait amongst Gothamites, particularly the ones that rob cafes at knife-point at just the hour the Bats tend to come out), Knife Guy whips the knife to the side to turn on the vigilante.

Hood’s got the knife out of the guy’s hand in an instant– Tim has just enough reflexes to grab the steaming cup of caffeine goodness that’s sitting innocently in harm’s way– and in the next second he’s grabbing the guy by the hair and slamming his head backwards onto the counter, spine bent at an angle that makes the onlookers flinch. A few more scurry out the door. There are other places to get a caffeine fix.

“Look here,” Hood growls, No-Knife Guy going cross-eyed as the knife points straight at his nose, “I ain’t lookin for a side of stitches with my candy cane hot chocolate with heavy cream, ya feel me?”

Mr. No Knife squeals.

“P-Please– I’m sorry, I’ll go! Promise! Just– fuck, l-lemme go!”

Hood’s head makes a minute motion, somehow conveying sheer exasperation despite the helmet (Though Tim can just feel the eye-roll going on). He drags the wannabe-robber up to his feet, though it’s pretty useless seeing as the guy’s knees give out they’re shaking so hard– and, oh dude, gross, that’s definitely a wet spot in the front of his jeans there. Tim’s nose wrinkles. He better not have to mop that up.

Hood pays the fact that he’s basically holding up all the man’s weight one-armed no mind, dragging him to the front of the shop. The bell chimes merrily as he gives the guy a literal kick in the ass out the door. The guy lands face-first in dirty, oily, Gothamy snow. An eight year old kicks him as she walks past, hand-in-hand with her father to the nearest bus stop. That Uptown Gotham charm, amiright?

“You’re just lucky I’m feeling the holiday fucking spirit right now– Plus, no offense,” a quick appraisal, “you’re kinda pathetic.”

And then Hood closes the door.

But he’s still here.

Tim looks around the shop. Apparently, at some point in the last 2 minutes, the rest of the customers have decided that they really don’t have time for the typical Bat-dramatics today and fucked off to another cafe. Tim should be more upset about the loss in business than he is, but that’s the furthest thing from his mind.

Because the Red Hood (It’s him, it’s really him) is still standing there. In the cafe.

 With Tim.

He glances down at his chest to make sure the knife isn’t actually buried there, because the possibility that he’s died makes more sense than the Red Hood standing in his cafe, surrounded by a horrific mash-up of dollar-store Hannukah and Christmas (because his family is technically Jewish even if they didn’t celebrate jack shit, and Steph took the shitty plastic menorah on top of the espresso machine as a challenge).

“Um,” Tim remarks, scrambling for the words he wants to say to one of his childhood heros, “So, can I get you something? I feel like I should get you something. Cause I mean. This is an establishment that supports vigilantism, okay? Robin’s Nest cafe, at your service. At least a 10% discount, just like military. Just putting it out there.”

Right. So where is that knife again? Can’t speak if he doesn’t have vocal chords.

The vigilante makes a sound through the synths in his helmet that must be a chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. He moves back up to the counter with movements far too fluid for someone of his size, and Tim swallows a bit as he’s forced to look up (and up) at close proximity. Wow, the helmet is something else– he’s itching to get his hands on it, take it apart and see all its functions and how it was made.

“Gotta first aid kit?” is almost lost to Tim, he’s so mesmerized – he thinks distantly that he’s probably looking a little manic, cause he’s running on caffeine and spite, and people have always told him that his tendency to hyperfocus is unnerving on a good day – but then the words click. He frowns.

“Yes, we do? He didn’t get you with the knife, did he?” he questions, eyes raking up and down Hood’s leather jacket for any telling rips or tears.

Hood tuts, reaching up to tap at his neck, “Nah, not me, but you’re ‘bout to need a new white shirt.”

Tim mimics the movement on autopilot, clapping his hand to the side of his neck and feeling the stickiness there. His heart jumps for a second as he pulls back his hand and sees enough blood there to wonder how he’d missed it.

“Oh. Damn.”

And that’s how, five minutes later, Tim’s got the doors to the cafe locked and finds himself sitting in the break room with the Red Hood dabbing at his neck with a cotton swab.

If he finally manages to overdose on caffeine tonight, he thinks he could go happily.

Hood’s so close that Tim’s 100% sure the vigilante can feel his heart trying to burst all his arteries by its sheer pumping force. He’s getting light-headed because he’s trying not to be creepy and do something like smell the the tall, buff guy with gentle hands (Cause, God, somehow the scent of cigarettes, leather, and gunmetal just work for him) and has thus forgone taking any deep breaths.

“Lucky you, s’not deep,” are the only words either of them has said since he plopped down on the table. Tim hesitates for a second, watching Hood close the first aid kit and step away, before he clears his throat.

Courage, Tim. Come on, you’re from Gotham.

“So. Thanks. For all that, I mean.”

Hood shrugs.

“Eh, there are worse ways to start the night. Plus, it’s way warmer in here than out there. Wasn’t kidding when I walked in– was gettin fucking blue balls out there, and not even from anything fun this time.”

Tim lets out a surprised laugh.

“Oh? Well, I think I have a way to warm you up.”

There’s amusement in every line of Hood’s shoulders as he tilts his head, becoming increasingly intrigued by this particularly bold civilian. When he speaks, there’s a definite purr there, mechanized though it is. Something prickly hot shoots down Tim’s spine, and he has to fight down a flush.

“Yeah? You got something in mind?”

Tim can’t help but grin. “Oh, I’ve got just the thing.”

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“Let me guess. Hot chocolate with heavy cream?”

“Shut your shittin’ mouth, Dick.”

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“…. It’s got candy cane flavor in it”

#tim drake #dick grayson #Jason Todd #dicktim #dickjaytim #dick/jay/tim #timsteph #a little #dc #dc comics #batman #nightwing #red hood #robin #red robin #civilian!tim #Coffeeshop!AU #Robin's Nest AU #part 2 #kurly writes #kurly answers

[bassclarinetprincess]

OK so I just found a newspaper that I pretended my American Girl dolls and stuffed animals wrote when I was in, like, fourth grade?  And it’s FUCKING HILARIOUS, I don’t know if I was trying to be funny or if my dryness/attempt to be “journalistic” just comes off as hilarious all these years later.  But here’s my four favorite articles:  “Crocs -- All That or Ka-Splat?,” “Lack of Jeans,” “Bears Find Themselves Cold,” and “Girls Want to Form a Zoo.”

CROCS -- ALL THAT OR KA-SPLAT? By Cacao Pence (this is a dark brown bunny)      Crocs are a foam shoe with holes in the toe.  They are in all sorts of colors, rainbow, blue, yellow, pink, and more!  They were quite a fad 2 years ago to last year.  Even boys wore them.  But they’re jinxed because who wears them now?      “I never cared less.” Addy Walker laughed.  Then Marisol Luna added, “You’re also from the 1860′s.”      Anyway, crocs have declined like Pirates of the Caribbean 3.  Since this reporter can’t decide, please mail your response to Cacao Pence.

LACK OF JEANS By Cacao Pence      Quinn Tolly is a girl who enjoys dressing in casual clothes, like her happy face punk outfit.  One day she changed -- and no jeans were to be found!      “It was SO embarrassing,” Quinn recalled.  “I ended up wearing ugly puffy shorts.”      Jeans, khakis, and other pants are on high demand.  The wide majority -- 3/4 of dolls -- always or mostly wear skirts.  3 of the 7 left are babies.  So only 4 dolls wear pants!  2 are boys, 1 came in them, and 1 hates hers.  (Edit:  I don’t know what this sentence means...)      “SEND US PANTS!” Kit Kitteridge screams, and most agree.

BEARS FIND THEMSELVES COLD By Cacao Pence      Ask Kenzie Stuffingham to show you her closet.  There are lots of summer wear -- but one sweater and one inadequate coat.      “It’ll be a dark day this winter.”  Kenzie shudders.      It’s true.  Most bears arrived in summer and spring.  They come with tanks and mini skirts.      “At least [Dylan] (Edit:  I’m not deadnaming myself, srry) recognized the need.” Stuffingham says.  “We went to buy a coat and boots, but nothing was there.”      “And then there’s me, with velvet fur!” Calvin Neill adds.      [Dylan] plans to buy bears coats.

GIRLS WANT TO FORM A ZOO By Shirley Dimpleson (and here we have one of those modern American Girl dolls -- everyone referenced in this article is a Bitty Twin or a Bitty Baby, don’t ask me how I remember this)      Imagine you’re walking in the doll territory.  Suddenly, you turn around.  A goat is nibbling at you.  You hop on a horse and gallop to the kennels, then play with a puppy.  Not happening?  5 girls want to change that.      Sami & June [My Last Name], Charlotte Fisher, Amanda Small, and Annie Tillson want to form a zoo.  They are intent on getting it built by next winter.  The problem is, they don’t know where it’ll be!      “That’s why they wouldn’t let us.” Tillson said.  “Plus we’re kids.”  (Edit:  I don’t know who “they” is but this is hands-down my favorite line of the whole thing.)      “Where it is won’t matter.” declares Fisher.      “We have so many animals, why don’t we show the world to them?” Small asked.      “We’re planning on getting the animals, having boys build them pens, and taking care.” J. [MLN] revealed.      The zoo is not expected to succeed.      “But it’s worth trying.” smiled S.

#d rants

[liamhomeblog-blog]

11 Amazing Home Decor Tips

Professional home stagers know how to decorate your home and make it appealing to just about everyone. We talked to several pros across the country to get their home decor tips for freshening up your home's interior--without spending your too much dollars.

Set The Tone at The Front Door

If you want your house to make a great first impression, paint the front door a fun, glossy hue. "Red is a lucky color in many cultures." A red door meant "welcome" to weary travelers in early America, and on churches, it represents a safe haven. Two other hues gaining favor: orange and yellow, according to San Francisco-based stager Christopher Breining. Both colors are associated with joy and warmth. One thing that should go: an outdated screen door. Get rid of it or replace it with a storm door with full-length glass that you can switch out for a screened panel.

Keep Wall Colors Light and Neutral

Stick to colors like beige or gray, especially on the first floor, where the flow is important. "You want to minimize jarring transitions," says Breining. Neutral walls give you the greatest decorating flexibility, allowing you to easily switch up your home accessories. And if you have two small rooms next to each other, painting them the same neutral color helps them feel larger. Look at a paint strip and move up or down a shade or two for a subtle variation from room to room, suggests Allen-Brett.

Make Sure Your Sofa Talks to Your Chairs

Think of a nice hotel lobby: The furniture is arranged in groupings that invite conversation. When you place the furniture in your living room, aim for a similar sense of balance and intimacy. "A conversation area that has a U-shape, with a sofa and two chairs facing each other at each end of the coffee table, or an H-shape, with a sofa directly across from two chairs and a coffee table in the middle, is ideal," says Michelle Lynne, a Dallas-based stager. One common mistake to avoid: Pushing all the furniture against the walls. "People do that because they think it will make their room look bigger, but in reality, floating the furniture away from the walls makes the room feel larger," she says.

Let The Sun Shine In

"When it comes to heavy, outdated drapes, a naked bank of windows is better than an ugly one," says Lynne. Ideally, window dressings should be functional and elegant: Think sheers paired with full-length panels. If your room gets a lot of suns, opt for light colors that won't fade. The most recommended lightweight fabrics for panels are cotton, linen, and silk blends because they tend to hang well.

Hang at Least One Mirror in Every Room

"Mirrors can make space feel brighter because they bounce the light around the room," says Breining. But placing one in the wrong spot can be almost as bad as not having one at all. Put mirrors on walls perpendicular to windows, not directly across from them. Hanging a mirror directly opposite a window can actually bounce the light right back out the window.

Scale Artwork to Your Wall

"There are few things more ridiculous-looking than hanging dinky little art too high on the wall," says Breining. The middle of a picture should hang at eye level. If one person is short and the other tall, average their heights. Also, take scale into account; for a large wall, go big with one oversize piece or group smaller pieces gallery-style. For the latter, don't space the pictures too far apart; 2 to 4 inches between items usually looks best.

Layer Your Lighting

Every room should have three kinds of lighting: ambient, which provides overall illumination and often comes from ceiling fixtures; task, which is often found over a kitchen island or a reading nook; and accent, which is more decorative, highlighting, say, artwork. For a living room, you should have at least 3 watts per square foot. One visual trick Breining swears by using uplights. "Placing a canister uplight or a torchiere in the corner will cast a glow on the ceiling, making a room seem bigger," he says.

Anchor Rugs under Furniture Feet

Follow these basic rules for an area rug: "In a living room, all four legs of the sofa and chairs in a furniture grouping should fit on it; the rug should define the seating area," says Breining. "At the very least, the front two legs of the sofa and chairs should rest on it," he adds. Go too small with the rug size and everything looks out of scale.

Call in a Pro to Declutter

The longer you live in a house, the less you see the mess over time. Sometimes you need a fresh pair of eyes. You can hire an organizer for a few hours to tackle bookshelves and closets, which stagers say are often packed with twice the amount of stuff they should hold. Breining suggests whittling down what's on your shelves by 50 percent. Then mix horizontal stacks of books among the vertical rows and intersperse decorative objects, such as bowls or vases, among them.

Use Visual Tricks to Raise The Ceiling

If your ceilings are on the low side, paint them white to make the room feel less claustrophobic. Hang curtains higher than the windows, suggests Allen-Brett, to trick your eye into thinking the room is taller. Most standard curtain panels measure 84 or 96 inches, allowing you to go about 3 inches above the window casing before the length gets too short. If you want to hang them higher, you'll have to order custom drapes. Love patterned panels? Try vertical stripes; the lines visually elongate your walls. Leaning a large mirror against a wall can also make a room seem taller.

Give Outdated Finishes The Cinderella Treatment

Got dated fixtures? Reinvent them with spray paint and inexpensive refinishing kits. "A 1980s brass chandelier can get a new lease on life with a quick coat of hammered-bronze or satin-nickel spray paint," says Breining. Even outdated kitchen cabinets benefit from a few coats of white paint and new hardware. And if you thought there was no hope for Formica countertops, think again. Breining swears by Rust-Oleum Countertop Transformations, a DIY counter-coating product that mimics stone, making even the ugliest 1970s counter look fresh. What's left to do: Swap out cracked and mismatched switch plates and outlet covers for updated matching ones. Says Lynne: "Nothing drags down a refreshed space like a dingy, almond-colored switch plate."

#homedecor #home & lifestyle #home decoartion #homesupplies #home decor #liamhome #home decor tips #home accessories

[nomorelonelydays]

Patater Week - Day 2

Feb. 7- Proposal/Wedding Day/Wedding Night (1.5K) “I’m nervous,” Kent says. “Change your mind?” Alexei teases, only feeling a tiny bit worried. He doesn’t think Kent will actually bail on him, now that they’re both in their suits and the hall is surely packed with their families and teammates. Bittle would cry if anything happened, Alexei thinks. And then skin both of them alive. But then again, Alexei did see Runaway Bride twice with Snowy, when he was first learning English and someone had the brilliant idea that the best way to learn is to watch all the classic romcoms. Snowy, it turns out, is a big fan of Richard Gere. Kent doesn’t look like he’s ready to bolt, but he did seem skittish, and in the movie, Julia Roberts had been very skittish. “No, never,” Kent says, taking Alexei’s hands and rubbing his thumb over Alexei’s palms. His hair is already a little mussed, the untamable cowlick threatening to pop back up. “Not about you. I know I’m an ass about a lot of things, but you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” “Good to know,” Alexei says, letting out a breath of relief. “You tell me now, then what you say for vows?” “Oh, God,” Kent laughs nervously. “Oh man. That’s—that’s the thing. The vows. In front of a bunch of people. I could probably do it. Maybe. You wouldn’t happen to be carrying Xanax on you?” He chuckles and scratches the back of his neck, but his jaw drops when he sees Alexei rummage in his pockets. “Wait, I’m just joking. I don’t actually—what the hell is that?”

Alexei shrugs as he shows the tiny blue pills in his palms. “Snowy put in pocket. He say ‘just in case.’ I’m not check yet, is maybe candy. He knows I’m like Smarties.” “What kind of Smarties are shaped like this? Did your goalie seriously give you Viagra? What’s wrong with your team, man?” Kent pauses. “Isn’t Viagra prescription? Oh my God, does Snowy need Viagra? That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day. I’m going to tell everyone later.” “Viagra?” “He fucking gave you penis pills, Alexei. He’s messing with you.” “I’m not need penis pill,” Alexei says. “My penis work.” “Don’t I fucking know it,” Kent mutters. “Wait. Wait, wait. What if we fuck? Like, in the supply closet or something before we go in?” “You meaning…right now?” Alexei looks around the church, scandalized. He hisses, “You crazy? Here? Where God see us?” “Alexei, you’re barely religious,” Kent mutters. “The only time I’ve seen you cross yourself was when that stew burned when your mom told you to watch it while she went out for supplies. Like, another thing of sour cream. Why does she need that much sour cream? Makes no sense.” “She not kill me that day is big miracle.” Alexei pointed to the door in exasperation, where the guests surely are waiting for Kent and Alexei to walk through. “But my point! Maybe God not care. But even worse thing, if my mother—” “Gross, that’s a boner killer,” Kent says, looking at the Viagra in Alexei’s hands. “Thank God we have these. Haha, hashtag blessed. Gimme a penis pill.” Alexei actually startles and tosses the pills behind him, where it clatters on the tile floor in a rather anticlimactic way. “No! No one have penis pill.” “Stop littering, Alexei. Christ, do you want us to get kicked out?” Alexei furrows his brows in disbelief. “You want to fuck in church and say I’m get us kick out?” “I’m freaking out, Alexei. You know I’ll say anything after an orgasm. Remember that time we had sex on your couch and I told you I hated that couch afterwards? Even though two days ago, I said it was a great purchase?” “Which couch? Yellow one or purple?” “Yel—wait, oh, God. Both of them are so fucking ugly. Um. I think yellow?” “You said you love the purple one,” Alexei argued. “Said it remind you of Barney the dinosaur.” “That wasn’t a compliment!” “But you love dinosaurs! Always buy the chicken shape like dino. How I’m know?” “Stop yelling at me! Who the hell doesn’t love Dino Nuggets, what are you, some kind of savage? I didn’t know I had to spell it out for you! The—no, we’re going off topic.” “I’m not yell,” Alexei not-yells, wringing his hands for good measure. “I’m not the one who want to fuck in church!” “We need to fuck,” Kent insists. “I’ll make it through the vows in front of ten thousand people only if I orgasm, since Jeff won’t let me touch alcohol. Which is a good idea, I don’t want to puke on your shoes. I’ll probably throw in a joke or two. It’ll be great.” “I’m not fuck you before ceremony,” Alexei says firmly, and Kent’s face falls. “Besides, only about 150 people. Maybe 152 if Sergei and his wife make in time, but they text me say they lost—” “Ugh, don’t tell me the number. Why didn’t we host the wedding in our backyard? Jesus, why didn’t we just elope?” Kent whines. “I actually live in Vegas. Couldn’t even have a Vegas, Elvis-themed wedding. What kind of fraud am I?”   “Hey, hey, come here.” Alexei doesn’t gather Kent into his arms so much as open his arms and have Kent barrel into his chest a little too eagerly. “Tell me why you really worry. Not crowd, I don’t think. Kent Parson love crowd and camera.” “Shut up, sometimes I like to sit in my room alone and do nothing, too,” Kent’s muffled voice says. “And then post picture on Instagram,” Alexei says, smiling into Kent’s hair. Kent doesn’t make a noise, only holds his fiancé tighter. Alexei lowers his voice to a coax, and with each name, he presses a kiss down Kent’s face, “Kenny, Kenny V. Parson. Going to be my Kenny Vincent Parson Rostislav Stanislavovich… Dostoevsky…Anna Karenina…Mashkov—” “Shut the fuck up, I hate you, Dostoevsky isn’t even a real person,” Kent complains into Alexei’s shirt. “I’m pretend I not hear that.” “And we agreed to hyphenate, you ass.” “Tell me what is bother you,” Alexei says, kissing the corner the Kent’s mouth. “And maybe I reconsider naming our child Leo Tolstoy. Is probably only name you can pronounce.” “I wouldn’t let you name our dog Leo Tolstoy,” Kent says. “Well, maybe Leo is okay for a dog. I take that back. And I can pronounce your name.” “Eh, more or less.” Alexei huffs a sigh. “Come, Kenny, tell me what I’m do so you feel better.” He feels Kent stiffen at his side, then whisper, so quietly that Alexei almost doesn’t catch it, “Can I just say my vows right now to you, so even if I mess up in there and every asshole sitting down waiting for me to fuck up knows I’m no good, at least you’ll know what I meant?” And there it is, all of Kent Parson’s fears laid out in the open. Kent doesn’t bother to look up, but he doesn’t pull away from Alexei, either. He’s always been stubborn, anyways. “Hey. If you mess up, and you thinking people think this,” Alexei murmurs, feeling Kent hold his breath, “then fuck them. Fuck all of them. Wedding for you and me. Maybe Kit, too. But not them. They only come for free food and alcohol.” Kent’s eyes aren’t exactly shiny when he does lift his head, but they are wide with surprise. “Already know you give more than I deserve, Kenny. So you can stand there, maybe only sing Britney Spears in front of God and Mama and nothing else, and I always know what you mean. Okay?” Kent’s mouth is slightly open in shock, but he seems to regain his sense when he grabs Alexei’s head down for a movie-worthy kiss. Alexei holds on to him, tipping Kent’s face back and rewrapping his arms around Kent, kissing him in that sure and happy way that only Kent can draw from him. “Sergei!” a woman’s voice says from behind them in annoyance, followed by a sound that sounds suspiciously like a purse smacking someone’s chest. “We miss it! Look, they already kissing! I knew I should have drove.” “No, they do this all the time, I think,” Sergei, Kent’s teammate says, as he readjusts his lapel. His wife, a tall, blonde woman in sharp heels and a tight, Tiffany blue dress, waves happily at the pair but stops when she hears a crunch beneath her feet. “Ew, what’s I’m stepping in?” she says, checking the remnants of the smushed Viagra pill on her shoe. Sergei coughs and waits for Kent and Alexei to pull apart before he continues apologetically, “Sorry. Hope we’re not late?” “You just on time,” Alexei says. He turns to Kent, “Ready?” Kent takes his hand. “Even if I sing Britney?” “Even if sing Britney.” (Kent doesn’t sing Britney. He says his vows perfectly, and Alexei thinks his mother cries a little bit in the front pew. And when they kiss, he feels Kent suppressing a happy, relieved laugh. He pulls back briefly before he has to dip Kent to kiss him again, and again, and again, until he hears Zimmboni quietly say, “Oh, wow, haha,” and Snowy in the background scream, “Yeah, Tater! That’s my fucking guy up there! Kissing his fucking husband!” before Marty pulls him back down in his seat.)

#pataterweek #bee writes #patater #prescription drug mention tw #but none taken #check please

[supernaturally-writing]

Set Her Free

A/N: So I got a request for Rowena x reader insert (female) and decided to take a crack at it, since I have a love-hate-relationship with Rowena and I’ve never tried writing f/f smut-- or fluff, for that matter-- before. It’s taken me a while to write this, because, even though I’ve had a few experiences with women myself, I’m not really experienced, per say. So, if I have anything wrong or under (or over) exaggerated, I’m sorry. :( But I hope you guys enjoy my first attempt at f/f smut! Feedback is appreciated! (Especially with this, since this is my first time writing something that isn’t strictly m/f)

Word Count: 3163

Warnings: Blood, mentions of injury and wound mending, SMUT (f/f), FLUFF, slight angst. Rowena x Female Reader Insert

Summary: When Rowena drops by for a surprised, though not unwelcome, visit at the Bunker, [y/n] is finally given the opportunity to face secret feelings and secret gifts. When presented with the opportunity to escape the hunting life and take up her heritage, will she leave the Winchesters, or will she stay? 

Masterlist  

The sight of Rowena standing out in the rain, bloody and cut up and cradling her arm against her chest, was enough to make [y/n] falter in her anger. Those first few seconds, as the shock registered within the young huntress that Rowena had showed up at the Bunker, of all places, faded away, sifted into the back of her mind for later. She didn’t expect, however, for her first words to be so harsh. “Why are you here?”

It was really quite obvious as to why she was there.

Rowena gave her a look that said as much, but didn’t deign to answer the question. She shifted her weight to one hip, a grimace curling her lips downward in an ugly pout. [Y/n] had to resists roving her eyes down to the witch’s form. Now wasn’t the time for her silly attractions or hormones. . . Even if Rowena did look delectable in that dress, clinging to all of her curves as the rain soaked through the material and pronounced the shape of her--

“You’re as bad as those brutes you call brothers. D’ya mind takin’ down the warding? It’s quite cold out here, believe it or not.” [Y/n] debated the situation for a moment, casting a glance over her shoulder and down the stairwell, into the empty war room. Sam and Dean had been gone a week on a djin hunt in Canada, leaving [y/n] to her own devices while Castiel tagged along and Crowley took care of whatever nonsense he insisted upon doing these days.

The huntress sighed, with resignation or irritation or deeply buried elation, she couldn’t decided, and slipped down the stairs as quickly as possible, careful of the drops and rickety metal. The wards powered down as easily as ever, allowing the huntress to breathe just a little easier. She’d never tell the Winchesters that her grandmother was a witch; the wards gave her headaches and nosebleeds and a whole plethora of things she’d always told them was stress-induced.

The only person who knew about the magic in her blood was. . .

“So how’s the magic goin’? Surely you haven’t wasted away in here and not taken the time to develop your powers. . .” Rowena was at the bottom of the stairs by the time [y/n] plodded back into the war room, as sulking as ever, even with the weight of the Bunker lifted from her shoulders-- for however short a time. “You did promise me, y’know--”

“I know what I promised, Rowena,” [y/n] sighed. She gave the witch a onceover, scowling at the pink-tinted puddle of water that was pooling on the concrete at the witch’s feet. Of all the things she really didn’t want to deal with right now, taking on her “responsibilities” was at the top of her Not To Do list.

“So then why haven’t you?”

“How do you know I haven’t?”

“Oh, with blood as powerful as your’s, you can practi’cly smell it when the magic finally ripens and blooms,” Rowena purred. Something about her tone sent a chill down the length of [y/n]’s spine; she ground her teeth, shoving down the growing heat between her legs, and trudged into the kitchen to trifle through the cabinets and dig out one of the First Aid kits they kept stashed all around the place. Who knew when a rogue plate would take the leap for the floor and injure a foot in the process, or when a door jam decided to get in the way of a toe during a late night walk through the halls. [Y/n] grimaced at the memory, phantom pains lancing through her crooked pinkie toe as she reemerged from the kitchen to find Rowena collapsed in one of the chairs surrounding the central table. The witch, in that moment that she’d been unaware of [y/n]’s return, had looked truly downtrodden. . . [Y/n] bit back the pang of pain that throbbed behind her sternum-- and the hot lash of anger that ripped through her at the thought of what-- or who-- might have hurt her so badly.

“Well,” she began, setting the kit on the table beside the redhead as she sunk into the chair beside her, booted feet disturbing the puddle that had begun forming around the legs of the chair. “I haven’t been practicing for the same reasons that you couldn’t get in. Hard to learn magic when it won’t normally work here.”

“You still haven’t told the Winchesters, then?” Rowena grimaced, a soft hiss escaping her lips when [y/n] reached over, knife in hand, and began gingerly cutting away the sodden sleeves of her dress, revealing the gashes and bruises beneath. They’d done this too many times to count by now. . . [Y/n] always preferred to think they hadn’t needed to.

“You think I’d be alive if I had?” Another hiss escaped the witch, and she flinched as [y/n] prodded around a particularly deep split in her arm, the pale flesh tracked with blood the color of her hair. The huntress sterilized a needle, carefully threading it in the process, while Rowena mulled over her answer. Fingers pinched flesh, teeth ground together, and the needle glided from one torn slice to another, stitching and closing.

“I think-- ow, couldn’t you be a little more gentle?-- fine, fine. But I think you should give the Winchesters a little more credit than that. . . We both know I’m not pro-Winchester, but I know them well enough to know they’d at least try to give you the benefit of the doubt.” Rowena flinched again when the tip of the needle dug particularly deep, and [y/n] quickly muttered an apology. [Y/n]’s hands were stained red at that point, smelling of whiskey and rain and iron. “They’ve lost too many people to just go about and kill all their friends that’ve got monster or magic in ‘em. If they did that, they’d only have each other left. I’ve heard stories of how well they fare with nothin’ but their own company.”

[Y/n] sighed through her nose, shaking the thoughts of being hunted by the Winchesters from her head. She honed her focus, finishing the last stitches. . . For that arm.

Once the stitching was finished, she wrapped the wounds in gauze, securing the ends with rudimentary knots that would suffice until the bandages needed changed again. Rowena stayed quiet for the most part throughout the process, only complaining once or twice about [y/n]’s shoddy needle-work. She only mentioned magic once again, when she snapped at the huntress: “This would be easier if you could use the magic you were born with.” One dirty look from [y/n] had her snapping her mouth closed right quick and in a hurry.

[Y/n] left Rowena to retrieve a pair of her own clothes, complete with her own undergarments and flannel. When she returned to the war room, expecting to find Rowena sulking and shivering in a puddle of her own bloody water, she was shocked to find that Rowena was quite the opposite: she’d stripped down until there was only the flesh on her bones, modesty thrown to the wind as she bound her dripping hair up as best she could. Heat flared in [y/n]’s cheeks, and her pulse stuttered behind her ribcage.

She acted as though the witch weren’t naked, and held out the clothes, eyes boring into Rowena’s.

In the end, [y/n]’s clothes were unnecessary. Rowena had hardly begun buttoning up the flannel when the tension between them finally, finally erupted; lips clashed, and [y/n] froze before she melted into the caress and stripped the shirt, popping off the two buttons that Rowena had managed to clasp beforehand. They stumbled through the halls, crashing into tables and dislodging chairs before they swung into [y/n]’s room.

Rowena groaned against [y/n]’s mouth as the huntress’ hands roamed freely over milky flesh; fingers circled nipples, pinching and rolling gently until the peaks were stiff and throbbing, sending streaks of fire strait to the witch’s core. Before she knew it, [y/n] was shedding clothes, until she was almost completely naked, her only clothing her lace panties. The yellow material stood out starkly against her skin, and even more harshly against Rowena’s as her fingers skimmed down beneath the material and circled [y/n]’s thrumming sex. [Y/n] shuddered, a moan of her own sounding in the air.

When Rowena stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed, [y/n] froze, heat coloring her cheeks. In truth, she’d only done this once before with a woman, as an experimentation. Sure, she’d liked it, but there’d never been another chance to try it again. Turned out, women were harder to pick up at the bars Sam and Dean frequented when one was also a woman. Rowena noticed the change in the huntress, and tipped her head, ever the fire incarnate as her gaze tracked over [y/n]’s naked body. She gave her a small nod, reassuring and understanding, and pulled her down onto the bed as well.

[Y/n] tried to relax, she really did, but she couldn’t suppress the shudder when her panties were pulled down her legs and thrown to the floor. Thin fingers massaged her flesh, the pale digits warm against her skin. Rowena was murmuring something, but [y/n]’s ears were buzzing too loudly with the warmth continually growing between her thighs for her to make out any of the words. She hummed softly-- and gasped when two fingers slipped into her heat, massaging her walls as they fluttered around the witch’s fingers. The huntress could feel it, that building release, as heat pooled in her lower belly.

“My darlin’s so wet for me, itn’t she? Jus’ for me,” Rowena murmured, her form shifting the bed as she wiggled down to lay on her stomach between [y/n]’s spread legs. [Y/n] couldn’t talk; she rolled her hips in response, whimpering softly as smooth fingers curled and scissored-- and pushed, very suddenly, upward, curling behind bone, until the tips of the witch’s fingers were pressing into hardened, spongy flesh.

[Y/n] shouted a curse as she came, hips rolling and fucking themselves on Rowena’s curling, pressing fingers. But the witch didn’t stop. She retracted her fingers, humming appreciatively at the sight of her hand. [Y/n] opened her eyes just in time to see Rowena lick her digits clean, [y/n]’s own juices glistening on the witch’s skin. The sight set a fire anew in her belly.

The huntress began to sit up, determined to return the favor, when the witch pushed her back down.

“I wanna taste you,” Rowena husked, and [y/n] whimpered, thighs pressing and rubbing together needily. She laid back again, and Rowena lowered her mouth to her sex; the heat of her tongue as she gave a single languid swipe up and through her lips made [y/n] writhe. With wide, thin hands, the witch pressed her hips against the mattress, keeping the huntress from fucking up into her face. Her tongue twirled and prodded, teasing, never quite hitting those sweet spots. Then, just as [y/n] thought she’d go insane, Rowena sucked her clit into her mouth and gently rolled the bud between her lips.

[Y/n] gasped, arching off the bed, and Rowena gave a lovely hum as [y/n] squirted her juices all over the witch’s awaiting, swiping tongue.

Rowena crawled up her body and flopped onto the mattress beside her, huffing a long, contented sigh, even as her own thighs rubbed together. [Y/n] hummed, long and deep, before she rolled over, heart pounding, and slanted her mouth against the woman’s beneath her.

“My turn,” [y/n] growled, licking her lips to taste herself on her own flesh. She leaned over and opened the top drawer on the bedside table, digging around inside until she fumbled her vibrator into her hand. When Rowena caught sight of the tool [y/n] had produced, she shuddered and mewled, tipping her head back as [y/n] crawled down her body. The huntress paused at the witch’s breasts, her lips forming around the stiff pink peaks in turn. She tongued them, teeth scraping gently, and Rowena’s hands threaded through [y/n]’s hair. When the vibrator hummed to life, [y/n] pressed the tip of the vibrator against Rowena’s sex; she pressed it deeper, coating it in Rowena’s juices, before she retracted it and pushed it up until the vibrations were pulsing against the witch’s clit. She repeated the process until Rowena was whimpering and begging for more. [Y/n] obliged with a small smile, slipping two fingers into the witch’s sex as the vibrator continued to assault her swollen clit.

Rowena came with a gasp, her eyes flying open, lips parting wide as her back arched, pressing her breast harder into [y/n]’s mouth while she rolled her hips desperately into the blue shaft of the vibrator that buzzed relentlessly against her over-sensitive bud. Before she could reach the end of her orgasm, [y/n] plunged the device into the witch’s depths in place of her fingers, pumping and thrusting, slowly and languidly. She angled it up, so it was pressed against Rowena’s upper wall, and gave long, deep pushes and pulls, the vibrator pulling yet another orgasm out of the witch.

They both came down from their highs with slow, exploratory kisses, tongues clashing and curling as fingers danced over skin and through hair. The need for air and rest finally drove them apart, and they laid side-by-side, one of [y/n]’s legs slung over one of Rowena’s. The ceiling suddenly seemed to become very interesting as they both stared at it, analyzing the entire situation and all the changes that had been made in the last hour. [Y/n] was the first to speak after too many heartbeats of relative silence.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, love. You didn’ hurt me. I feel quite better, actually, now that I think about it.” The huntress gave a small smile at that, and turned her head to the side. Rowena continued to stare at the ceiling, her naked chest still heaving.

“I didn’t know you were into women-- I’m not complaining. . . You just. . . Never gave that vibe, y’know?” There was two more heartbeats of silence before Rowena, too, turned her head, hazel-green eyes meeting [y/e/c] eyes.

“When you’ve lived as long as I have, you learn to take it when it comes, from whoever it comes from.”

A pang of hurt flashed through [y/n], lightning quick, but she nodded with understanding. She knew how lonely this existence could be. She sat up, legs folding, any modesty she might’ve had having long ago been tossed to the wind. “I see. . . So, this-- uh, this didn’t. . .”

Rowena followed her movements, sitting up and scooching around on the mattress until she was facing the huntress, dark eyes wide and searching. The shadow around her eyes was a bit smudged, a streak of iridescent green arching towards her left temple. [Y/n] didn’t know when she’d rubbed her eye, but, somehow, the sight of it made her heart flutter impossibly faster. Even with smudged makeup and a sweaty brow and tousled hair, Rowena was astounding.

“No, love, no. I. . . I’ve wanted to do that for a long time--”

“But you’ve always acted like you detested me, and only needed me for my pow--”

“Because it is easier to act as though I hate you than to admit that I’ve loved you, [y/n].” Rowena looked stricken with the admission, but she plowed on, her head dipping as she found a sudden interest in the threadbare comforter below them. “Your power is useful, yes, and intriguing, but that isn’t. . . Your power isn’t why I came here tonight.” She looked up then, lips pressed thin and pale, though her cheeks were aflame with color. Beautiful, vibrant color. “I could’ve gone to a million different places tonight. But I didn’t. I came to you because I’ve loved you. Loved you and hated you and admired you and despised you. But most of all, I’ve wished you were mine. . . And I’ve hated every waking moment of that wishing, because I never thought. . .” She didn’t need to finish. She didn’t deign to.

[Y/n] leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Rowena’s. Pain and elation swirled behind her sternum, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Somewhere deep inside her, triggered by any number of things, she could feel her magic stirring, burning and freezing, shocking and soothing. Having raw power was a gift and a curse, all rolled into one dangerous burrito of paranormal abilities.

“Come with me, [y/n],” Rowena whispered. Her thin fingers threaded through the huntress’. “Leave the Winchesters behind. . . They won’t accept you. They can’t. . . They can’t love you like I can. They won’t.”

[Y/n] pulled away, only far enough to look the witch in the eye. Thoughts and memories swirled through her mind, unbridled and shockingly sharp. She’d always had a secret to keep. . . Hell, all three of them did, but her’s. . . Her’s was deadly. She’d never had any doubt that, if the Winchesters caught wind of her gifts and of her heritage, of just how powerful she could and would be, they would decide, without her input, to take care of her. One way or another. . . But this. This was a new opportunity. She’d be on the run for the rest of her existence if she went down the wrong path, if she followed her fate and went through with what the universe had been seen to have in store for her. But she wouldn’t. Her destiny was her own choice. She could take fate into her own hands. She would.

A thought occurred to her suddenly, a fuzzy memory quirking the corner of her mouth.

“I thought you couldn’t love, Rowena.”

Rowena laughed softly, fingers squeezing fingers as she leaned forward to press another gentle, affectionate kiss against [y/n]’s kiss-swollen mouth. “You and me both, love.”

“Dear Sam and Dean,

In the past, I have been presented with many impossible choices, but none quite as impossible as this. Nevertheless, I have made my decision anyhow, and. . . I don’t think I’ll regret it. Not this time. Not like I have in the past.

They say if you love something, set it free. Well, this is me loving myself. I ask you to do the same. Don’t come after me. Don’t look for me. If I should ever come up again, turn your cheek and walk the other way. I’m out of the hunting life. For good.

I love you. I love you, my pseudo brothers, and I need you to love me, too. Let me do this. Let me, finally, finally be free.

-- [Y/n]”

@marril96

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fandom #supernatural smut #supernaturally-writing #spn smut #spn #spn one shot #spn fic #Rowena #rowena x reader #reader insert #reader imagine #reader is female #blood #smut #fluff #spn fluff #witch!reader

[boydchloe]

How Do Female Cats Spray Super Genius Unique Ideas

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Cat Urine Low Ph

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Cat Spray Look

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