#if these bastards keep it up they’re gonna fill me with enough spite to sit my ass down in theatres just for her | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

narumi-gens · 3 years

Note

Okay but would Naoya have a secret breeding kink when blue ball queen was dirty talking him about “filling her up” or would he just be infuriated 👁 👄 👁

note: even a broken computer isn't enough to keep me from digging in the trash 😣 warnings: smut, impreg kink, misogyny (naoya, duh) words: 1.7k (because I’m the trash queen) related drabbles

As Naoya watches you underneath him, practically folded in half from the way he's pushing your knees to your chest with his hands on the backs of your thighs, he finds himself angrier than usual.

But for once, he can't blame it on you despite how much he wants to. He can't blame it on your disrespectful mouth that never shuts up or your inability to recognize him as your better.

No, he's angry at himself. Because instead of focusing on the way your tits bounce with every brutal thrust or how your fingers are furiously rubbing at your swollen clit or the string of moans escaping you, all he can pay attention to is your stomach.

Or more precisely, all he can pay attention to is the thought of what it would look like if he didn't pull out like he usually does.

The last thing he wants is for you to end up pregnant with his kid. He doesn't need any bastard kids running around, especially not ones that would tie him to you for the rest of his life.

But the thought pumping you so full of his cum that your pussy is overflowing is too tempting for him to ignore. He imagines your stomach swelling, your tits getting big, your body changing like nature intended because of him.

In spite of himself, he finds his hips pounding into your ass even harder as his grip on your thighs tightens.

He wants to be the one to show you that all you're good for besides fucking is getting pregnant and having kids. He wants to force you to accept that you are truly the weaker sex by design. He’ll make you see that any notions you have about "self-worth" and "agency" are nothing more than misconceptions.

He’ll turn you from a foul-mouthed, ill-tempered, disrespectful jujutsu sorcerer into a wife and mother who bows her head when she talks to him and knows her place.

The thought of breaking you in is so tantalizing that it almost has him coming on the spot.

"Gonna show ya," he pants, his eyes squeezing shut as his mind paints the image of you so fucking big with his kid on the backs of his eyelids. "Ya ain't good fer anything else."

"Shut up," you're quick to reply between moans, but it only urges him on. You won't be so mouthy when you're taking care of his kids, when you're cleaning up after them, when you're breastfeeding them.

He lets out a low groan as he pictures how big your tits will get when they’re full of milk for his kid. It's enough to push him over the edge and before he knows what he's doing, his burying himself as deep as he can inside of you and coming with an almost animalistic growl.

His hips give a few jerks as he fills you with his cum, his hold now so tight on your thighs that finger-shaped bruises are a guarantee. His shoulders rise and fall rapidly as tries to catch his breath.

When he lets his cock slip from you, he can't tear his eyes away from the way his cum slowly leaks out of your messy cunt and trails down the crack of your ass. He continues to hold you in place for a few moments longer before collapsing onto his back beside you in bed with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, already reflecting back on how that may have been the hardest he's ever come before. He pointedly ignores the fact that imagining you pregnant with his kid was the cause.

But while he's busy luxuriating in the aftermath of his orgasm, he's completely ignorant to the storm brewing beside him.

"You fucking came inside me!" you shout, sitting up in bed and hitting him hard in the face with the pillow that you had been using.

He recovers quickly and grabs it from you so that he can place it behind his own head with a smirk.

"Yeah? And?" he asks, his tone bored. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you angrily get out of bed and pick a discarded shirt up from the floor that you slip over your head.

"You're so fucking lucky I'm on the pill," you hiss as you storm off to the bathroom, loudly slamming the door shut behind you.

"Good! That means I don't gotta keep pulling outta ya anymore!" he yells after you with a sadistic grin. He wonders what you're more upset over -- that he came inside of you or that you didn't get to come.

You're only gone for a few minutes. He hears the toilet flushing and the water running before the door opens and you come back into the bedroom.

"You're fucking useless," you mutter and he closes his eyes as he stretches with a loud yawn. "I should've just gone with my vibrator. It doesn't have a mouth and doesn't make a mess. And it also makes me come every time."

"That ain't my job," he scoffs, a truly amused smirk playing at his lips at the idea that he's here for your pleasure.

He cracks an eye open when he hears you sliding opening the door to the balcony just off your bedroom. He catches just a glimpse of you holding something in your arms before you disappear onto the balcony for a few moments. When you return, your arms are empty.

He watches you as you pick up his boxer briefs before slinging them at his face. His reflexes are quick enough that catching them before they hit him is an easy feat.

"Get the fuck out," you say without sparing him a second glance on your way out of the bedroom and he chuckles to himself. Frustrating you is almost as gratifying as sex.

His amusement persists even as he sits up and slides on his boxer briefs. But it doesn’t last much longer because he’s quick to see that your bedroom floor is now empty, his clothes nowhere in sight.

He glances at the sliding glass door that’s still open and his eyes widen when he suddenly remembers that you had carried something onto the balcony, only to come back without it.

No.

You couldn’t possibly have.

No.

In the blink of an eye and with the speed he’s known for, he’s on your balcony and tightly gripping onto the railing as he searches the mostly-empty street below. When he sees his shirt, kimono, and hakama scattered on the sidewalk, pure rage explodes in his gut.

“Fucking BITCH!” he yells with no care for your neighbors or the late hour.

He’s moving so quickly that in the back of his mind he wonders if it’s the fastest he’s ever been. One moment he’s on your balcony and a millisecond later, he has you pinned on your back on the couch where you were sitting.

He straddles your hips as he wraps a hand around your throat, his grip growing tighter when he sees how your eyes are dancing with mirth.

“You already up for another round?” you ask, a slight wheeze to your voice from how hard he’s squeezing your throat. His fury is so all-consuming that he doesn’t even notice the way his cock twitches.

“You fucking bitch,” he seethes. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

You raise an eyebrow at how his anger actually has his Kansai accent easing, like his ire is great enough that it’s actually able to override any pronunciations and verbal ticks.

“Well, before you do that, you might wanna go get your clothes,” you point out, sounding almost bored. “The bars are getting ready to close and all it takes is one person who can’t hold their alcohol before they’re throwing it all up.”

He wants to argue with you, call you a bitch some more, and punish you for thinking you have the right to talk to him like this and treat him this way. But he also knows you’re right. He needs to recover his clothing or else all he’ll have to wear on his way home is a tight pair of boxer briefs.

“It shouldn’t be too hard to get them back for the world's fastest sorcerer," you mock with a rasp and he lets his hand close even tighter for a few moments, wanting you to think your life is truly in danger, before he releases you.

He’s gone before you even know what’s happening and he’s already halfway through getting dressed by the time you make it out onto the balcony to watch him struggle. He ignores the heat of your gaze on him, as well as the stares of the few passersby who stumble upon the bizarre scene playing out in the middle of the street.

“Oi! Zen’in-sama!” you shout down to him as ties his hakama. He refuses to acknowledge that he’s heard you, although how could not have with how loud your voice carries. It’s enough to catch the attention of everyone down below. The mocking tone is gone with your next words, your voice as cold as ice. “I know my cunt’s so sweet that it’s hard to resist, but the next time you come inside of me without permission, I’ll cut your balls off so that you can’t make that mistake again.”

He looks up at your balcony, but you’re already gone. He growls to himself, seething that despite everything, you’ve still somehow managed to not only end up with the last word, but also to have humiliated him.

Now that he’s no longer buried ball deep inside of you, he can think with a clearer head and even through his anger, there’s an irritating note of relief that you’re on the pill.

It’s already bad enough that he can’t seem to give up your pussy, but that’s at least a habit he hopes to one day break. A kid would keep you in his life permanently.

A chill runs down his spine at the idea, disgust curling in his stomach. He tries to ignore the hint of arousal that lurks just underneath it.

#it's trash day #naoya zenin #naoya zenin x reader #zenin naoya #zenin naoya x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk #jjk spoilers #jjk hc #hate fuck!naoya

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haikyuu-scenarios-box · 4 years

Text

Haikyuu Horrors — Week 2🔪

Demon — DemonKing!Oikawa Tooru x FallenAngel!Reader

Previous Week: Wendigo — Kuroo Tetsurou x GenderNeutral!Reader

TW: fire, mentions of torture, religious references, blasphemy i mean seriously demon!oikawa is in love with u ofc it’s gonna be blasphemous

Word count: 2,370

UNDER THE CUT

__________

One of the many debates in Heaven was why the number of demon contracts skyrocketed as centuries passed. As [y/n] poured the hot tea from the pot into their cup, they recalled their answer - mortals were simply hollow without greed. Koushi’s healing wasn’t enough, Azumane’s protection wasn’t enough, Kiyoko’s beauty wasn’t enough and Daichi’s wisdom wasn’t enough.

But the demons... their services fully relieved whatever emotional or superficial famine mortals were undergoing. They went beyond what a mortal desired and for that, they gained their soul in exchange for temporary pleasures. [Y/n] figured that Tooru - the king that oversaw the sixth circle of Hell - was relishing in the torture he subjected those that were damned to reside in his realm for entirety.

The tea coated [y/n]’s mildly inflamed throat with a comforting warmth. When they caught a glimpse of the woods from the front window, a bitterness akin to a melting pill on their tongue bloomed within their chest. Keiji just dropped them in the middle of nowhere and by sheer chance, [y/n] eventually found a one-room cabin that’d been abandoned for years. It had barely been a month and [y/n] was already inflated with frustration. How the fuck did mortals live like this? They felt like a goddamn farmer every time they watered the empty vegetable patch and collected leaves from a nearby tea shrub.

Their jumbled thoughts ceased once their ears began picked up on distant sprinting. [Y/n] would be lying if they said that their paranoia didn’t exponentially increase the moment they fell. After all, most of their powers had been taken, besides a small bit of their healing ability and heightened senses. No strength. No agility. No exorcism. Nothing.

At first, [y/n] dismissed the sounds as paranoia - a camper or hiker, perhaps? Despite their attempt at composing a logical justification, a bout of nausea grew within their gut and the muscles along their jaw ached with tension. The sweat that slowly sweeped from [y/n]’s pores pricked their skin as they hurriedly reached for the door, locking the four locks along it.

It couldn’t have been a human. Those sprinting footsteps were far too fast.

It couldn’t have been an angel. They were forbidden from contacting all of them, including fallen ones.

It could only belong to a demon that donned a human body.

[Y/n]’s hands shivered with a numbing, glacial dampness. They no longer possessed defensive abilities, nor were there any weapons in the cabin that would be effective against a demon. As the sprinting got louder within their ears, a dry knot formed itself within their throat and the intensity of [y/n]’s heartbeat weighed their head down, almost sending them to the floor. They were simply frozen. There was nothing that could be done.

A great force shattered the wooden door into splinters and boards. The locks might as well had been a layer of chiffon.

‘W-what...’ they backed away slowly, the sharpness of a spike buried within their sternum. He appeared human, but [y/n] could very clearly see his real form. ‘How... Azumane s-sealed you away, I-I don’t...’

‘I didn’t think that this form would leave you speechless,’ Tooru said with pride, flashing a charming smile, ‘I wanted to wear something nice for you.’

‘Wear something?’ [y/n] repeated with disgust, ‘You’ve possessed an innocent man!’ they yelled, riddled with spite, ‘Who is he? A father? A son? A—’

‘I’m offended that you’d accuse me of such a thing,’ Tooru feigned hurt as he approached them, ‘I made all of this’⁠—he gestured in a downwards motion to his body as he grinned—‘on my own. It took a decent amount of energy to make a form this appealing. You could at least appreciate it.’

‘Well that energy has gone to waste because I can already see how hideous you look underneath it,’ [y/n] scowled, ‘get out or I’ll send you back to where you belong,’ they bluffed, stretching out their right hand towards him. They wished that the archangels could hear them curse for taking away the only ability that would’ve kept them safe.

The smirk that Tooru’s lips curled into denoted scepticism and cockiness. The last time a substantial number angels fell was eras ago when they fought alongside the Devil (which, as most knew, ended with a victory for Archangel Azumane when he managed to seal him away within the deepest layer of Hell). Despite that, Tooru didn’t forget that those angels that fell to Earth had almost entirely lost their powers.

‘Come closer and do so then,’ he beckoned, ‘or are you scared that I’ll be the one who sends you to where you should’ve fell?’

[Y/n] opened their mouth to respond, but Tooru’s strides towards them caused that sentence ceased before it even began. In the three centuries they’d been imprisoned in Tartarus, they’d almost forgotten how ugly and twisted a demon’s real form was, even more so when it was the king of a circle. It was such a sharp contrast to the human face that Tooru currently hid behind; a smokey, pitch-black void that dripped with a various shades of a deep crimson. The blurry features of a substantial number of agonised human faces littered his form, their hands either pounding or scratching. He had the skull of a horse for what would be a face and his limbs were thrice as long as that of a normal human; the decaying shreds of muscle sizzling around the cobalt traces of fire lining them.

At the same time, though, [y/n] couldn’t deny that Tooru’s mortal form was captivating. It was mesmerising enough to render them blind to what lied beneath it.

‘As if dumping you in the middle of rural Japan like a bag of trash wasn’t bad enough, your powers were taken away as well,’ Tooru stared right into them, ‘a bit excessive for throwing a tantrum about serving ungrateful humans, don’t you think?’

Long ago, prior to when [y/n] began to develop an intense loathing towards the archangels, they would’ve sent the bastard right back to Hell so that he’d go back to trapping every damned human within a flaming tomb, or whatever other punishment that the sadist came up with throughout his reign.

Certain affirmations simply could not be forced, and this was one of them. In a way, [y/n] was starved - they always sought more control, more freedom and much more power. Tooru stole the words right out of their larynx. If Father had truly loved them equally, he would have granted every angel unimaginable power. Equality and bias were opposites and restricting such power to the Archangels was on the far end of that spectrum. The fact that all [y/n] could do was do mortals’ bidding filled them with resentment, so much to the point where they were surprised that none of the other angels sensed it.

‘I can still feel it so clearly,’ Tooru inhaled deeply with a pleased smile, ‘that pure hatred in you,’ he said, ‘I remember it all the way back from when you fought alongside Azumane when he was trying to seal me away. You were the only being that abandoned the battle,’ his features softened, ‘and for that, you were damned.’

[Y/n]’s eyes and nostrils grew warm, lower lip quivering. ‘How did you break the seal?’ they muttered after a short silence, changing the topic and neglecting his earlier statement.

‘I’m glad you asked!’ Tooru clasped his hands together, ‘All it takes is fire created by an archangel.’

‘W-when I fell...’ [y/n]’s heart pounded within their cranium upon realisation, ‘... the embers from Keiji’s fire...’

‘Correct,’ he beamed, ‘That reminds me, I should probably thank Makki and Mattsun for taking their hellhounds on regular walks. Those hounds smelled messenger boy’s fire from towns away.’

They merely stood there, watching Tooru walk around the cabin curiously. The entire encounter caused an harsh headache to throb along their temples. [Y/n] could sense their eyeballs slowly rolling to the back of their skull and they wanted nothing more than to lay down.

‘This place is depressing. And I’m saying that as someone who lives in Hell,’ he remarked, his back facing them as he glanced at the patches of dust on the kitchen counter.

‘Did you come here take me to your realm or to judge my decor?’ [y/n] sarcastically asked, overwhelmed with emotions they couldn’t even describe (divine beings were crafted to be pragmatic, not emotional). ‘If you’re planning on torturing me for intel on the archangels, let me just tell you in advance that they’re still sitting up there doing nothing.’

‘Torture?’ Tooru chuckled. When he turned around, [y/n] watched ebony slowly pool into his eyes, starting from his waterline and eventually blending into his pupils. The smirk he wore only amplified his unsettling aura. ‘If that was my plan, I would’ve just asked the kings of the eight circle to take care of you. Tetsurou, Bokuto and Kei would have got you talking in no time.’

The mention of those names drove a shudder to travel through every bone in [y/n]’s body. A sudden heat enveloped them, leading sweat to become a disgusting adhesive between their clothes and skin. The wooden walls snapped and crackled, whereas their lungs felt as though they were on the verge of collapsing into themselves. When their vision grew distorted with heat stronger than that of Tartarus’, [y/n] realised that it was far too late to keep stalling.

‘What I want is to propose an offer.’

With a single blink, cobalt flames erupted from the floor in the form of a dome around them. The intense heat against their skin was excruciating enough to make [y/n] howl and whimper, a first degree burn already flourishing onto their skin. The smoke compressed and stung every one of their internal organs; despite that, they refused to sink to their knees.

‘God’s love isn’t unconditional, [y/n],’ Tooru began, walking through the wall of fire without a flinch, ‘he made me too, yet he doesn’t love me. And he certainly doesn’t love you either. Not anymore.’

Several wooden planks clattered to the dusty floorboard from the ceiling, a thick blackened sheen enveloping them almost immediately. [Y/n] could barely breathe, their gasps and wheezes sharp enough to bear a similarity to skewers impaling them. Yet, terror was no longer within them; merely because they were in the presence of someone who understood. As Tooru cupped [y/n]’s face and stroked their cheekbones with his thumb, the flames began to slowly dwindle into ash.

‘But me? I love you.’

‘What?’ [y/n] questioned, confused beyond measure. Demons were incapable of love - this was either lust or pure manipulation.

‘I love you,’ Tooru repeated, an unnerving Cheshire grin drawn along his lips. ‘Without you, your rebelliousness, your disobedience, your hatred, I never would have been able to return here,’ he slightly tightened his grip on their face, ensuring that their gaze remained fixated on him, ‘Fallen angels gain great power when they’ve suffered in Hell long enough. Much greater than your father could ever give you. Return with me and suffer, and then... it’ll be yours.’

His fingers ran through [y/n]’s hair, brushing away stray strands off their forehead. The gesture was so tender, so human; a complete contradiction to his nature and position. They weren’t sure that angels themselves were capable of carrying out an act that delicate.

‘I want more than that,’ [y/n] scowled, placing their hands flat against his chest. ‘I want the archangels to suffer. I want every human in Hell. I want the entire fucking earth,’ they curled their fingers into Tooru’s shirt, aggressively pulling him towards them to press their lips against his. They were infuriated by their own thoughts and transfixed by the demon in front of them; it was as though [y/n] believed acting on their blind instincts would somehow enrage the archangels. Their lids slowly sunk closed as he placed one hand at the back of their neck and the other on their lower back, tugging them even closer to his body.

‘There’s only one way to gain that kind of power,’ Tooru smirked as he pulled away, raising their head by the chin with his knuckle to stare right into their irises.

‘I know,’ [y/n] solemnly said, gently stroking his cheeks, ‘Take us home.’

__________

It would have been logical for one to assume that Hell would be even more unbearable for a being that resided in Heaven for centuries, but [y/n] was an anomaly. They stood in front of the full-length mirror, admiring their formal attire and mortal form. A while ago, Tooru had refurbished the castle entirely while [y/n] underwent the transformation. Although it’d been eras since an angel was turned into a demon, he recalled how lengthy and agonising the process was and of course, he wanted his darling to return to a home they’d adore prior to even entering.

‘Your highness,’ a voice rang from behind them, ‘we await your arrival.’

It wasn’t just Tooru and [y/n] that donned their mortal form today. They’d made everyone in the realm do so as well. Demons accepted their appearance, yes, but no one could deny that they were repulsive (after all, [y/n] themselves couldn’t persuade their mind to view their new self as acceptable). Neither of them wanted to stare down at their subjects in their monstrous forms from the castle’s balcony.

When [y/n] headed towards the balcony, their groom finally came within their sight. ‘My love,’ they cooed, prompting Tooru to turn around. Hajime, his personal advisor, was already delivering a speech about the significance of the day; though [y/n] wasn’t listening, really.

Tooru took their hands within his, kissing their knuckles with a genuine grin.

‘The overseer of the City of Dis’—Hajime began his introduction—‘the punisher of heresy, the ruler of the sixth circle of Hell, King Tooru!’

Excited yells, hollers and claps erupted as Tooru left their side to appear on the balcony. He stood proudly with a captivating smile, giving a wave to the demons he ruled over. Almost everyone in the realm attended - a “short vacation”, they all called it.

‘And the angel that abandoned the battle against the sixth circle now roams it, not as a fallen angel, but as one of us!’ Hajime announced with a loud, confident voice That was [y/n]’s cue to appear.

‘King Tooru’s [bride/groom], [y/n]!’

The buoyant cheers grew once more as [y/n] stopped beside Tooru; yet the attendees might as well have remained completely silent, for all their focus was on him. He wrapped his arms around [y/n]’s waist as they cupped the sides of his face, tenderly placing his lips against theirs and relishing in their warmth and softness. They both currently appeared so humane; however, they knew that they shared an intense ugliness within them.

‘We will soon dominate the Earth and the Heavens, darling,’ Tooru whispered.

They wouldn’t have had it any other way.

#haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa tooru #demon!oikawa tooru #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu imagines blog #haikyuu x reader #gender neutral reader #writing #scenario #haikyuu horrors #tw: fire #tw: blasphemy #tw: religious themes #tw: torture mention

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mummybear · 5 years

Text

Betrayal - Dean Winchester One Shot

Words: 1863

Warnings: Swearing, Cheating, Hurt/Heartbreak think that’s it

Characters: Dean Winchester/Reader Mentions of Sam Winchester

A/N: Dean and his girlfriend (You) have an argument but with their relationship survive (Based on song) (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOzdfaEPaR0) Jazmin Sullivan Bust your windows)))also there may be a follow up to this

Part 2

Dean had been pushing your buttons all day, winding you up to the point of you snapping. Honestly, you knew you had held back as long as you could. The anger was boiling inside you, as you slammed yet another door closed in the bunker behind you, although he continued to follow behind, no sign of him giving up anytime soon.

He continued to insist you couldn't go on certain hunts, apparently, they were too dangerous for you. Even though you had been hunting easily as long as he and Sam had. But there was one, in particular, that was grating on you, he knew how much ganking this vamp would mean to you. The one who had taken away your entire family.

Sam had left a while ago, declaring he would be back once you two had sorted your shit out.

According to Dean you were over emotional and going to get yourself killed, "Fuck you, Winchester! How many times have you been over-emotional! Angry beyond reason even, you're a grade-A hypocrite" you growled at him accusingly, jabbing your finger into his chest.

Dean rolled his eyes as he neared closer this time you were unmoving, angrily glaring up at him. "I'm doing this for you. You're no good to anybody like this! Just stop being so fucking stubborn!" Dean retorted, throwing his hands in the air before grabbing another beer.

"That's it, Dean! Drown yourself in alcohol pass out and ignore the situation! Good to see nothing changes. You're one to talk about stubborn" you scoff at him venom lacing your words as you turn to walk away.

Dean grabs your wrist before you can get too far away, a fake laugh leaving his lips when your eyes meet again. "Ain't you one to talk sweetheart. You love drinking as much as I do! Every. God. Damn. Day! Sitting in bars letting those guys flirt with you, making me jealous, thinkin' I don't notice the way you smile" he spat back, getting in your face now.

Dean practically walks you back so your back collides with the wall, his nose bumping yours as he attempts to kiss you, but you turn your head away the tears burning at your eyes.

Everything suddenly pouring out of you until you turned back to him, catching his smirk, thinking yet again you were gonna let him get away with it. But you'd been pushed way to far this time. You shoved hard at his shoulders, watching him stumble a little shocked as the tears began to slip down your cheeks. "You wanna know why! Because it's the only fucking time you look at me, the only time you want to touch me! The only time you look away from them sluts, who're rubbing themselves against you all night!" you said an angry sob leaving your lips.

"You know it isn't like that. Stop being so stupid!" Dean sighed annoyed, trying to get closer to you.

You backed away shaking your head. "So now I'm stupid as well! Fuck you Dean Winchester" you cried, heading out to leave.

"Wait! Where the hell are you going?" Dean called sounding a little panicked but still annoyed.

"I'll be back later. Not that you give a shit" you replied quietly, as you left leaving him no room to reply.

Climbing into your car the tears continued to fall, you shook every feeling inside of you, begging you to run back into his arms. You quickly buried that feeling deep down, switching on the radio didn't help exactly not with the words playing back at you.

you've got a hold of me

Don't even know your power

I stand a hundred feet

But I fall when I'm around you

Show me an open door

Then you go and slam it on me

I can't take any more

I'm saying, baby

Please have mercy on me

Take it easy on my heart

Even though you don't mean to hurt me

You keep tearing me apart

Would you please have mercy, mercy on my heart

The words caused you to turn off your music before you could hear anymore. You punched at your steering wheel as you pulled over, into a felid a short distance from the bunker, as if you were unable to go any further. "What the hell is wrong with me?" you questioned yourself, alone in the middle of the night in the car.

Slumping across the steering wheel you let your mind wander, to what you and Dean had talked about long ago. When you had first gotten together, the plans you had made, the way he held you at night while you cried about your family.

Your eyes slipped shut, thinking about his face when you told him you'd loved him. Those gorgeous green eyes were practically sparkling, the tears rolled down his freckled cheeks. The way his lips had curled up into that adorable smile, the one that made you want to hide him from the world, protect him from everyone and everything that would ever hurt him.

You hadn't realised you'd even fallen asleep until you woke with a jump hours later. You wiped your tear-stained cheeks and eyes with your sleeve and cleared your throat. Sighing to yourself it was damn late, you needed sleep, even if that meant taking one of the spare rooms for the night.

Starting your engine again you slowly made your way back to the bunker, intent on ignoring your boyfriend when you got there.

The drive back was silent, you weren't sure whether things between you and Dean were going to get any better, but there was no way you could leave it like that.

You finally arrived outside the bunker, you sighed heavily climbing out of your car. Heading inside the sight before you made you wince, there was glass shattered all over the floor, clear signs of Dean's anger once you'd left. Anywhere else you may have been worried about, but here you knew he was safe.

Reluctantly you headed down the stairs, walking through the hall past Dean's room, you decided to duck your head in your room to check on him since the light was still on. "Dean" you sighed as the door opened, your heart dropped in your chest at the sight before you.

Dean was in there alright. With some blonde chick straddling his waist, her hands clawing at his chest. You stumbled back, afraid you were about to throw up. Dean tossed the girl onto the side of the bed, doing his best to pull on his boxers, a look of complete horror on his face.

"What the fuck! You complete bastard! I'm gone a few hours and your fucking some slut in our bed!" you scream at him, noticing the way his mouth opens and closes several times.

"I thought you'd left me" Dean replied quietly.

"No fucking way, not flying with me Winchester. I said I was gonna be back later. I was right though, clearly didn't give a single shit did you! Took you hours to move on from us" you spat disgusted, backing out of the room unable to look him in the eyes anymore, not wanting him to see you crying over him, again.

"Baby please, I'm sorry. I love you. Don't go, I need you" Dean begged following behind you, making sure not to get to close.

You spun around on your heel to face him, so fast that Dean almost collided with you. "Dean, you!" You screamed shoving his chest as you pushed away another sob, focusing on your anger to get you through this. "You never get to call me baby again, don't you dare pretend that you love me right now! There's some naked random in our bed right now! You don't need me, you just need someone to keep your bed warm" you all but screamed, your voice straining and you sighed. "So, go ahead. We're done" you motioned back to the room that was his alone, as you finally cracked letting the tears fall.

"No. No, not like this. Please, I do love you. You have to believe me, I fucked up. I'm one big fuck up, but please you can't leave me" Dean begged as he dropped to his knees in front of you, hugging your thighs.

"I can't do this anymore Dean, I loved you, more than I ever thought possible but you've broken me" you sighed looking down at him.

Dean let go of your legs but stayed on his knees looking up at you. "I only did it because you left me, I didn't think you were coming back, maybe if you would've stayed this never would have happened" Dean replied getting up suddenly and towering over you.

"Oh wow, so that's how you're gonna play this. It's my fault!" you growled, folding your arms across your chest.

"Well yeah, you know if the shoe fits" Dean spat back, mirroring your stance.

"I'll call Sam about picking up my stuff when I'm settled, don't even think about trying to find me when you've got your brain back" you replied simply, grabbing the baseball bat and machete by the door as you headed towards your car.

"Hey, they're mine" Dean shouted following behind you.

"Think it's the least you owe me, don't you" you answered twirling the bat in your hand.

"No, not really. Not when your about to get yourself killed" Dean said stiffly, trying to act like he didn't care.

"You lost your right to care about me and tell me what to do the second you found a hole to fill for the night" you spat spitefully at him lashing out with the bat, he ducked thinking you were aiming for him, but instead colliding with the window screen of the impala.

"Don't be a spiteful bitch Y/N" Dean growled, attempting to snatch the weapon from your hand.

You dodged him just in time, landing another shattering blow to the driver's window. "Less chance you'll follow me, quick enough, at least," you said simply with a shrug.

"Don't take it out on the car, stop being like this. Just come inside, can't we just talk about this, what about Sam?" Dean asked you, he was serious was the thing that shocked you.

"Tell Sammy I'm sorry, sorry that you're a cheating piece of shit. You're lucky I don't carve my fucking name in your baby" you screamed towards the end landing a final blow on the rear window, it was easy enough when you thought about all the time you'd spent together talking about the future. Never had you imagined this.

"That was shit, that was stupid. I'm sorry, please. God, I don't want you to go, hit me, punch me I deserve it! Just don't go, I can't handle anything happening to you" Dean sighed defeated, you didn't want to but you ignored him, quickly climbing into your car.

"Goodbye Dean" you replied sadly, closing your car door and driving away from the only man you'd ever loved and he'd broken your heart.

Tags: @lettersofwrittencollective @stiles-o-dylan24 @chewie-redbird @lusyschwa

#dean winchester #dean #dean winchester supernatural #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x y/n #reader insert #reader #deanxreader #supernatural #jensen ackles supernatural #SPN #spn fanfic #spn one shot #supernatural one shot #dean winchester one shot #angst #dean winchester angst

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an-aura-about-you · 4 years

Text

Drinking Acquaintances

I’ve been listening to a Lunar 1 let’s play during work and I decided to write in that universe again.

Nash holds his drink up, the light from the Blue Star tinted green from the amber in his glass. The ale (he THINKS it’s ale) in Lann isn’t bad in theory, though that’s an assumption since he hasn’t tried it yet. But he knows what drinks he likes and this generally isn’t what he looks for. He can already tell from the aroma that whatever this is is sweeter than his tastes, which means either it’s been sweetened or it’s not going to be very strong. Taste might not be why he wants to drink it, but it’s going to be more of a chore if he has to drink a lot of it.

He decides to stop stalling and drink the damn draught.

Nash gets about half the glass down, pulling a face when he stops. It’s growing on him, but wow, it’s so sweet and full-bodied he might as well be drinking straight honey. He wonders if Kyle would bother drinking this or if it’s more suitable to Jessica or Mia’s tastes. Either way, sober beggars can’t be choosers.

Down the hatch.

“Hey Nash!”

Nash nearly chokes on his drink but fortunately manages to get it down the right pipe.

Kyle leans over to check on him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Just surprised to see you drinking. It really must be the end of the world.”

Nash wipes his mouth with his wrist and goes, “Some of us have discerning tastes. All that’s happened is you’ve caught me making an exception. Speaking of, it’s rare to see you intelligible.”

“The night is young and I’ve only just started,” Kyle says before taking a swig from his own glass. “But I kinda wanna take this to Tamur so that maybe it’ll be a good glass of beer when it grows up.”

Nash stifles a laugh. “Imagine that, we agree on something.”

“Not to mention the both of us being smart enough to not turn down free booze.”

Kyle has a point on that. One glass down, no idea how many more to go, but at least they’re not the ones paying for them thanks to Lann naming Alex an honorary citizen and letting the alcohol flow like water. It won’t be enough for alcohol poisoning at this rate, but Nash can still work himself into a good, proper stupor and maybe not think about how screwed he is.

He already needs another drink.

“Are we the only ones drinking?” Nash asks, waving over someone with a bottle for a refill.

“I think we’re the only ones not done,” Kyle answers. “Jess already had her fill, and Alex and Mia turned it down.” He grins and says, “One of these days, Jess is gonna talk Mia into a drink, and then it’ll be all over for the two of us.”

“Mia doesn’t-,” Nash begins, but he backpedals to say, “I’ve never seen Mia drink.”

Kyle shrugs his arms wide. “So? Doesn’t mean she can’t if she wants to. ‘Snot like you’re the boss of her.”

Nash looks down at his glass at that. Every choice in front of him is the wrong one. Might as well keep it up. He takes another drink.

“Hey Nash.”

Nash turns to Kyle, the brigand wearing an oddly serious frown. It’s not that he’s never seen it before. It’s just usually not directed to him.

“I wanted to apologize,” Kyle says. “For teasing you about Mia back in Damon’s Spire.”

Nash scowls and furrows his brow. “No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do!” Kyle insists. “Look, Nash, I know we don’t always see eye to eye, that’s probably never gonna happen.”

“Then why are you bothering, especially when you know I don’t believe you?” Nash asks before taking another sip.

“Because the way you looked when you saw Mia fall over sick in Pao was the way I felt when I saw the same thing happen to Jess.”

It’s Kyle’s turn to take a drink after that, and Nash contemplates his words in the brief silence.

Kyle continues with, “I see that look in a man’s eyes, I know he’s gonna do for his girl what I’d do for Jess. It doesn’t feel right calling that a crush.”

“To be fair, Jessica was the one who called it a crush,” Nash points out.

“Yeah, but I was thinking it pretty loud.”

Nash considers this as he works on what’s in his glass. Once he’s made a bit more headway, he says, “Well, thank you, Kyle. I actually do appreciate that.”

“Yeah, well, don’t expect me to make a habit of it,” Kyle replies.

“Perish the thought. I likewise hope you don’t take me for a drunkard.”

Kyle makes a scoffing laugh and goes, “You? You can’t be a drunk until you actually try drinking with me.”

Nash gestures with his glass and says, “I should stand a little ways away, then. I wouldn’t want to think of us developing any sort of camaraderie.”

“Woah, let’s not go crazy. I don’t hate you, but we’re not going that far.”

Nash laughs in spite of himself.

“Hey, look at that: you actually do have a sense of humor!” Kyle says.

“It’s the drink,” Nash protests.

“C’mon, even you aren’t that much of a lightweight.”

Rather than answer that, Nash gets another glass of ale and works to find the least risky discussion he can now so he can hopefully stay on it when he’s really gone.

Just tell him, his brain whispers. Tell him the truth and get your head lobbed off. It’ll be quicker and less painful than anything else that could happen. You wouldn’t even have to make any other choices.

He keeps drinking.

“So, what’re you gonna do when all this is over?” Kyle asks. “See if Mia will wanna settle down with you? You’d probably make a good trophy husband for her.”

Well, so much for that. Nash looks at what’s left in his glass, focusing on that and not what could happen. “The only future I’m looking at right now is another glass of ale.”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Kyle agrees, being tactful for once and not pushing Nash about his obvious sidestep.

It’s the last moment Nash remembers from the night, the last thing besides sickly sweet oblivion.

Nash steps into the Seagull Tavern, both grateful and a little pissed off that he can. It’s one thing to survive during a war. It’s another to survive during a war you’re going to lose. It’s yet another to survive during a war when you should be dead already and wonder why anyone bothered to bring you back when you’re just going to die again.

“You bastard.”

He isn’t surprised to hear that, but he still looks up to see who said it this time. It’s even less surprising to find it came from Kyle, who’s sitting at a table and on what looks to be at least his fifth drink judging from the glasses on the table.

“You bastard, Nash, you were right,” Kyle tells him with a brief, violent gesture of his glass. “Fuck you.”

“I deserve that,” Nash responds, approaching the table. “Believe it or not, I didn’t want to be right about this.”

“Shuddup,” he slurs. “If you’re not drinking, get outta here.”

“What else would I be doing in a tavern?” he asks in response. “I’ll even buy your next drink.”

Kyle scowls at him before relenting, a mirror to Nash’s own despair.

It shakes him a moment. He certainly doesn’t know the brigand well, but this is the first time he’s seen such sheer hopelessness cross his face. He never thought he’d have anything in common with the muscle-bound imbecile, especially this.

As if to hammer it home, Kyle says, “Why the hell not? What does it matter? We’re all gonna die anyway.”

“No, all of you are going to die,” Nash responds, taking a seat while thinking through their mutual resignation. “I’m going to get horribly tortured, and if I’m lucky I’ll die.”

“We were gonna do the same thing to you.”

“It’s not the same at all. Ripping me apart would still be more merciful than whatever Ghaleon has planned for me.” He waves over a waitress to order a drink. “Rewarded as a traitor deserves.”

Kyle looks over his glass in a slight fog of inebriated confusion. “I’d offer to help, but I don’t think I could take yer head off clean until I’m sober.”

“I can wait.”

He puts his glass down and says, “I’m never gettin’ sober again.”

“Well, thanks anyway. It’s the thought that counts, after all.”

Nash gets his drink, idly surprised that the Seagull Tavern actually does have cocktails as well as glasses to serve them in. But then, if there’s any cocktail that should be expected in any bar, it should be a nice, dry martini. He takes a sip and gets one more surprise, learning that it’s not as awful as he expected. In fact, it’s actually kind of good. Now this is the proper way, or at least the most proper way available to him, to get drunk.

“Shoulda known you drink cocktails,” Kyle says. “Wha’s next, a fuzzy navel?”

“I’m never going to drink anything sweet again,” Nash answers. “Not after that ale in Lann. That felt like it took forever.”

“Oh yeah,” Kyle responds. And then he adds with just enough anger riled up in his voice, “Can’t believe we were actin’ like friends. I shoulda killed you then.”

“If you had, it would have been the friendliest thing you ever did for me.”

“Yeah, well... I can’t now.”

Nash finishes his martini and moves to order another. “The only problem with this is it takes a while for the liquor to get to your head.”

“Somethin’ that never happens with beer,” Kyle points out.

“Oh let me have this; if everything’s going to hell, I might as well have a martini or two.”

“It does feel pointless,” Kyle agrees. “You know what? Fuck it. Y’did what y’did, but can’t stop it now. Why be pissed at you for th’ rest of our lives when we can drink?”

“Another rare agreement,” Nash says, holding his glass up in toast.

Nash looks out to the Meribian Sea, enjoying the salt of the night breeze and the martini in his hand. It’s the first moment he’s had alone since everything ended, time to contemplate his strange new situation.

For one thing, he’s alive. For another, so is everyone else he wanted to survive out of this. And not only are his companions not going to torture him, they’re actually all on about the best terms he can expect, some better than he hoped.

“Hey Nash!”

Well, so much for solitary thought, but Kyle showing up is not unwelcome this time around.

“Hey Kyle,” he greets back, not bothering to turn and face him. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“One day you’ll make a good joke, but that day’s not today,” Kyle responds, heading over with his glass of beer. “So, living in Meribia, huh? How you likin’ it?”

Nash shrugs. He didn’t get to that part yet, didn’t want to rush into it since it’s one of the bigger changes. But that’s Kyle, subtle as a sledgehammer.

“It’s weird,” Nash answers, pausing to sip his martini. “But anywhere that’s not Vane was going to feel weird to me. It seems like if I just look up in the right spot, I’ll see it. Even now, it feels like I’m spending too much time here and should go find Mia so we can go home.”

Kyle lets that sit a moment before saying, “Yeah. Is it too optimistic to think of it like being on vacation? I mean, you’ll get to go home eventually, right?”

Nash chuckles ruefully and goes, “Rebuilding Vane is going to take a lot of work.”

“It is,” Kyle agrees. “How’s Mia? Is she just as miserable about what happened as you are?”

“At this point, she’s more concerned about Majesty Lemia,” Nash answers. “And who can blame her? But even now, when she’s working, she’s already looking straight ahead at what Vane can become.”

“Man, you better not need me to tell you not to mess it up with Mia again.”

“I don’t plan on it, but if I do I’m acknowledging right here and now I deserve whatever I get. Fair?”

“Fair.”

“So, do you want to hear the other weird part?”

“Depends on how weird it is,” Kyle says before taking a drink himself.

“Not as weird as everything else but still odd: at this rate, you’re the person I’ve had the most drinks with.”

“That’s not so weird. I’m usually that person for everybody. No surprise Jess calls me an enabler.”

Nash shakes his head a little and says, “I wonder how bad it would get if all of us went out for a drink together.”

“Pretty sure that’s the definition of shitshow, Nash.”

“You’re probably right. Is it bad that I kind of want to see it anyway?”

“Nah,” Kyle says with a grin. “It’d probably be a funny shitshow.”

Nash shrugs. “Maybe it’ll happen one day. Who knows? Maybe one of these days we’ll go out to get a drink and actually plan to do it instead of one of us just butting in when the other one tries to drink.”

Kyle snorts into his glass. “Like drinking buddies? I dunno about that.”

“When you put it like that, you have a point. Us drinking buddies? The Blue Star might fall out of the sky before that happens.”

Nash immediately regrets his wording as soon as it leaves his mouth, shutting up to take another sip.

“Eh, we can still drink now,” Kyle says to gloss over it. “In any case, I’m not about to waste this brew.”

“Tell you what, we ever agree to go drinking anywhere, we’ll go to Tamur,” Nash suggests. “I never did get to try the beer last time, but anything’s bound to be better than Lann.”

“I can agree to that.” Kyle takes his turn to life his glass. “To not drinking in Lann ever again!”

“Cheers!” Nash toasts before the two of them get back to their drinks.

#note: this story has drinking with the intention of getting blackout drunk. reader discretion advised.#alcohol mention #suicidal ideation #also this is a piece of fanfiction that won't make sense unless you've gone through the game and know it pretty well #also yes in the game the people of Lann point out that they're kids #but it's also established that Kyle and Jessica are old enough to drink which means Nash is also old enough since he's Jessica's age #Alex and Mia are possibly too young but is that going to stop the party? nope!

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redvelvetreel · 6 years

Text

Red Velvet Reel 6.5: Cele-BRAT-ion!

[Fic Directory]

Pairing: [Married] Spicyhoney (Underfell Papyrus x Underswap Papyrus)

Summary: WELL THEN. Now that they’ve got Swapfell squared away, time to get Undertale to toe the line.

Characters: Edge (Underfell Papyrus) & Stretch (Underswap Papyrus) & Red (Underfell Sans) & Blue (Underswap Sans) & Classic (Undertale Papyrus) & Comic (Undertale Sans)

Contains: Mpreg/Skelepreg! Meeting up in a (sports) bar! Everyone talks a lot and never shuts up! (More) Stupid Fellverse posturing and antagonism! Lots of headcanons! Culture clash!

Rating: Teen and up! (I guess?)

Note: 1 more part left for this installment! <3 Thanks so much for sticking through this with me!! ;w;

Underswap Papyrus – Stretch Underswap Sans – Blue Underfell Paprus – Edge Underfell Sans – Red Undertale Papyrus – Classic Undertale Sans – Comic

“No.”

Edge abruptly returned to the table, gesturing over his shoulder incredulously as he stared at Red.

“Huevón!” Red slammed his fist into the table, smiling broadly. Everyone jumped, but there was a note of admiration in his voice, “Whatta bitch! Hate that guy! The fuck! Congrat-fuckin’-lations!”

“What does that mean?” Edge hummed in absentminded agreement, drumming his fingers on his crossed arms restlessly, “Así no más? They let it drop, and we win?” He didn’t wait for Red to answer, shifting with nervous energy. “Ugh, we’re so out of practice, and they’re so weird about it!”

“Rrrelax, Ñaño.” Red shrugged nonchalantly, an easy smile on his face, “Do what we do. Wait ‘n see ‘n fuck ‘em up if necessitated, yeah?”

“Yeah...” Edge didn’t look convinced, but he sighed as Stretch put an arm around his shoulders. His mouth quickly quirked into a smile as he put his arm around his husband’s waist, sounding pleased, “You were fantastic! Truly a ‘charm’ offensive!”

“BOSSASS, Stretch!” Red’s smile stretched even wider as he banged his hands down again, pointing at him approvingly. “Ya healed Pup! Goddamn! Then tell lil’ bastard to fuck off with a hug!”

“Black didn’t know what to make of that!” Edge sounded gleeful, a mischievous sparkle in his socket as he turned to Red with a smirk. He kept his arm around Stretch’s waist in an unusually public display of prolonged affection, so he must have been really impressed. “I thought he was actually going to accept out of spite!”

“Hell yeah!” Red gestured that his mind was blown, “Lil’ bastard ain’t know who he’s fuckin’ with! Stretch’s rock solid!“

Edge scoffed, “He’s soft by choice, not lack of ability- as I’ve told you hundreds of times!”

“Whatever,” Red drawled, resting his chin and looking bored, “Yer biased as fuck. Damn! Now I wanna fuck somethin’ up! Ya any good to rumble, Stretch?”

“Of course he is!” Edge looked insulted, “You think I would marry someone who wasn’t?!”

“Ah, yes,” Classic leaned back and played with the straw in his drink absently, “You two like to talk about not so good things like they are very good things, even though they absolutely are not.”

“I’m not taking any shit from you!” Edge’s demeanor snapped into something more hostile as he turned towards Classic, pulling away to point at him dramatically. “What the fuck were you thinking?! You tryin’ to get me dusted?!”

Classic’s eyes bulged out of his sockets, spitting out the mouthful of his drink on the table, “Hah?!”

Red pointedly leaned over, holding a napkin daintily as he dabbed at the spot. He cleared his throat, pitching his voice higher in obvious imitation of Classic, “Let me just-“

Blue jabbed him in the ribs hard enough Red hit the table with a bang, “Knock it off, asshole! Haven’t you had your fill of violence and arguments yet?!”

“Nope!” He answered petulantly, throwing the napkin in Blue’s face. “And you hush up, backstabber!”

“Me?!”

“Yeah!” Red gestured at the door with palpable frustration, “Ya cain’t speak ‘gainst me till after they gone! Ya tryin’ to get me killed? Yer bro’s hubby?! Yer own goddamn fuckin’ sobrino?!”

Blue blanched.

“No?!” Red sneered, turning away with disgust, “Then shut up ‘n listen fer once in yer fuckin’ life!”

“I-“ Classic gestured at himself helplessly, “I don’t understand what you’re talking about?!”

“I just told you!” Edge let out an angry huff, crossing his arms over his chest, “It’s a Fellverse thing! Magic is everything to Fell! If I can’t use my magic, I’m weak! If I’m weak, I can’t protect nothing I got!”

“Yeah!” Red crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring his brother with a sour expression, “Then everythin’s up fer swipin’, includin’ Honey ‘n the brat! S’when whose backin’ ya up gotta look real dread! If y’ain’t look united, then y’ain’t shit! So they don’t got not reason to hold back, ya dig?”

Classic looked almost queasy, “Black and Slim would never-“

“I don’t fuck with chance!” Edge slammed his fist into the table, looking angry, “I don’t know where they stand or what they want, so I had to make myself clear! My...” Edge glanced at Stretch, drawing a line with his finger.

“Line in the sand.” Stretch did not want to be drawn into this at all. He sat down and slid over to his old spot as unobtrusively as possible.

“Of course, now you’re helpful!” Edge still complained loudly, shaking his head. He was mostly talking to Classic, but made sure to look at Blue too, “At least wait until mi hijuepu enemies are gone before you are questioning me! And! Por el amor del Ángel, don’t ever ask me to apologize! Carever-“

“Ojo!” Red’s voice took on an oddly stern tone, “Ain’t no need t’be nasty. If they ain’t gonna help, they gonna sit pretty ‘n stay outta it, right?”

The Fell monster didn’t look the least bit abashed at all the incredulous looks. Which was maybe to be expected, but was still incredibly surreal. Red scolding anyone, let alone Edge, about their language?

“Yeah?” Red prompted again, moving his hand in impatient circles. “Baby Blue?”

“Ok.” Blue nodded quickly, still not quite able to meet Edge’s eyelights, “I won’t get involved. ...Sorry.”

Stretch didn’t like this- he wasn’t sure what Edge and Red were trying to prove against Classic and Blue, of all people, but he knew he couldn’t say anything. Even if it seemed excessive, Edge was acting out of a sense of paternal duty and insecurity. Especially after those impassioned lectures of being publicly supportive, he wasn’t sure what he should do...

“Class-“ Red started to say, only to be cut off by a sound that was equal parts distressed and irritated.

“I don’t want to answer!” Classic shook his head, a stubborn set to his unsure smile, “I can’t give you my blanket approval- because I do not approve! And I cannot condone the use of such forceful methods!” He sighed heavily, looking tired, “You could have handled things with Slim much, much better, Edge! You didn’t need to escalate it to violence- and just because Stretch healed him doesn’t mean it didn’t happen! I think if you just-“

“Papyrus,” Edge leaned on his hands, an undertone of frustration to every punctuated word, “I’m not asking for your permission- I’m going to do whatever I feel is necessary to keep my baby safe.”

Comic cracked one socket open, but didn’t entirely drop his pretense of sleeping, “Don’t you think you’re worried about the wrong guy?”

The Fell monsters exchanged a look. “Nah, ‘cause the Lil’ Tyrant gave in, ‘n so they gave us an out.” Red put his face in his hands, worrying at his sockets restlessly, “They’re ‘duty bound’ to be ‘not enemies.’ Honor ain’t mean nuthin’ back home, but them Swapfell’s’re different ‘bout that shit. Sides, Puppydog ‘n us got history.”

“Oh?” Comic closed his socket with a nonchalant shrug, “Guess honor’s not for chumps, and his goody-two shoes act is believable.”

Equal parts impressed and annoyed, Red’s grin was razor sharp, “Point is, esfinge, that we know Fell, ‘n we know what they’re gonna do. The real concern’s both of yas.” He pointed at both of them with the same hand, “When shit hits, what’cha gonna do?”

Edge crossed his arms over his chest, eyelight bright and focused, “I just need to know if I need to protect Pancake from you.”

Classic put his head down into his hands, muffling what sounded like a frustrated scream. Which, fair enough- Stretch has no idea how he would handle being on the receiving end of this. Just as quickly, Classic was sitting up again, looking like he had just come up with a brilliant idea.

“How about a compromise?” He asked brightly, “I know you know that I would never, ever purposely hurt your babybones! And I absolutely would never ever want to inadvertently cause them harm!”

He crossed his arms, looking torn, “But I can’t just sit here while you maim, humiliate, or otherwise fight with someone just because they make you nervous! That’s a terrible way to handle feelings of anxiety, and will undoubtedly lead to more problems than it solves! So, let’s just not!”

Edge tilted his head, looking cautiously curious, “Not what?”

“Not stay! Let’s just leave! You can tell me you don’t feel safe, and I will escort you out to make sure no one lays a hand on you or Pancake!” Classic held up a hand at the dubious expressions he was receiving, literally waving concerns off, “Let me finish! That way, you can stay physically safe and feel safe, too! And it will still give you the ability to rectify bad behavior- if these people won’t respect your wishes, then they are probably people you don’t want around Pancake right now anyway.”

Classic puffed out his chest with a broad smile, “If it makes you feel better, I can also guarantee I will do my best to find a solution while you are not there! You see, I am very good at conflict mediation, and very stubborn! And Sans is very good at getting out of situations he doesn’t want to be in, so he can guarantee a quick retreat!”

“So...” Edge’s expression soured, “You want me to flee-“

“He wants to be your bodyguard.” Stretch cleared his throat, still not sure if he should comment, but it seemed innocuous enough. “Hustle you out of danger until the coast is clear.”

That changed their attitude. Edge finally sat down next to his husband, arms still right over his chest as he looked at Red. “Bodyguard.”

“Maybe.” Red drummed his fingers on the table, “Switch it. Y’ain’t gotta get your claws dirty, good, ‘n he’s pretty reliable. ‘N tall...”

“I am all of those things!” Classic agreed with a proud toss of his head.

“It would never work with Fell.” Edge started cracking his knuckles, looking down at the tabletop, “They wouldn’t-“

“Ain’t no Fell!” Red whistled loudly to get get his brother’s attention, “Puppydog ‘n Lil’tyrant ain’t no challenge no more, d’fuck else ya worryin’ ‘bout, huh? Ghosts?”

For whatever reason, Edge flinched at that. Hard.

“Edge.” Classic’s voice was gentle. “I won’t let you down.” He slipped off his mitten, holding his pinkie out with an unusually solemn expression, “I promise I won’t let Pancake get hurt under my watch.”

The Fell monster sighed, long and weary, but hooked his own pinkie back, “I’ll let you try. If I need to get involved afterwards, I will- but fine. I’ll let you try first.”

When he made a move to pull back, Classic kept his hand in place. “Sans!” He hissed to his side, jostling his brother with his elbow, “You too.”

Comic took his sweet time sitting up and reaching over to hook his own finger around Edge’s finger. “I’ll back Pap up, and getcha out. If I need to.” He said simply, expression carefully neutral. Well, that was about what Stretch expected- Red didn’t look surprised either.

Comic pulled back a moment later, resettling himself on the cushions with a sigh, “But you should know who your friends are by now.”

“Yes, fine, friends-“ Edge tried to shrug the comment off, but it clearly bothered him enough he felt the need to justify himself. “But I can’t take the same risks as if it were just me.” He managed to keep himself from touching his scarred socket, but he picked at the scars on his knuckles absently, “Friends can still hurt you, even if they don’t mean to- sometimes they’re even worse than enemies. If I’m wrong-“

“Yeah, well-“ Stretch cut in with a cough, putting a discreet arm around his husband’s waist, “We do what we gotta do to protect ourselves and the people we love, right?” Edge didn’t give him much of a reaction, but didn’t resist as he was tugged a little closer.

“We never actually toasted Pancake yet, did we?” Blue was unusually hesitant, still chastened from earlier, but clearly desperate for a topic change. “We should!”

“Yes!” Classic clapped his hands, looking absolutely delighted, “A toast for the baby! And, because I know how much Edge values action over words-“ He opened up his STAT menu, withdrawing 200 g from his gold pouch. “I will fund it!”

“Hell fuckin’ yeah-“ Red perked up immediately, moving his mug to his new spot with magic, “Gonna get chumado as fuuuuck-“ He poured the remainder of Black’s drink in his mug, and moved Slim’s glass closer.

Classic put the gold on the table with obvious flourish, pushing it in their direction, “A gift from us- mostly me, but this is technically everyone else’s money, too- to you... all! Happy impending babybone’s birthday!”

“I-“ Edge looked surprised for a moment, touched and guilty and confused rolled into a too open expression, before he buried it down with a devious smirk. “How very generous!”

He curled his hands under his chin like a cartoon villain, tone innocent in a way that could only be deceptive, “I can only wonder how you’ll top this at Pancake’s shower party! I’m looking forward to see what kind of unique and lavish gift you’ll bring, ‘Uncle Classic.’”

“Uncle?!” Classic’s expression lit up, eyes becoming large hearts as he gasped dramatically. “I get to be Uncle Classic?!”

“If you want,” Stretch barely managed to suppress a relieved sigh, glad everything seemed to be much less tense, “Unless you wanna be called something else?” He glanced at Blue and Red, but neither seemed to be particularly bothered by sharing that title. “We were thinking ‘Sir’ might be fun too, like a knight or something-“

“Wowie, Sir Papyrus!” Classic’s eyelights positively sparkled, “I’ve always dreamed of being a knight!” He shook himself free of the sparkles- literally, although Comic didn’t seem to mind having some on the top of his head- before continuing earnestly, “Of course! I cannot let Pancake down! I will get them the absolute best present of them all!

“Because! I am great at a good many things, especially creating artificially high standards that are difficult to reach! By everyone, sometimes including even me!” Classic smiled broadly before his face became incredibly blank, “What event is this? A baby what?”

“A baby shower! It’s a human tradition!” Blue perked up and launched into a long, detailed explanation Stretch started to tune out immediately. This was more of what he had been hoping for the entire evening, honestly- he was relieved everyone finally seemed to be getting along again and having a good time.

Well, almost everyone. Edge always had a tendency to lay his acting on a little too thick when he was preoccupied, and there was stiff tension to his spine. Stretch would be looking into that at the end of the night. (Early tomorrow morning?)

For now, though, he was content to enjoy warm conversation with good company and this delicious honey mead.

[Part 1 ] [Part 2 ] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5 - Here! ] [Part 6]

#underfell papyrus #underfell sans #underswap papyrus #underswap sans #classic papyrus #comic sans #skelepreg #spicyhoney #redvelvetreel #fanfic #gosh the grammar is really bad sometimes dfjkdfhhd i gotta stop posting at like 1:30 am :c #but thats the only time i haveeeeee oTL

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whifferdills · 7 years

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As promised~ (1/3) A prompt that I think you'd do wonderfully at, if you're up for it: 12/delgado!master, some h/c in the form of talking things out + maybe cuddling, takes place before 12 meets Missy. The two accidentally bump into each other on neutral ground (like a bar, y'know, but it doesn't have to be a bar? A place where 12 isn't being righteous and the master isn't being evil, they've both just come to this place bc they want to and the other just happens to be there).

(2/3) 12 is like oh shit the timelines, the master can tell this doctor is far older than him. As he has not met missy yet, 12’s most recent memories of the master are of simm, who is far more unstable and violent. 12 is jumpy around this version of the master even though it hasn’t happened for him yet. Delgado can tell something is off, asks him about it- even though they’ve had their spats, the doctor has never been this nervous around him. Aforementioned talking things out and h/c ensues-

(3/3) -perhaps somewhere quieter (TARDIS?). Basically I just need delgado being steady and sure and relatively gentle (compared to the violence of simm) with a skittish and nervous 12 who honestly just wants to hide- but delgado won’t let him until they’ve talked things out since this is so uncharacteristic for the doctor. (12 tries to make timeline excuses but delgado just points out that he’ll forget). Bonus points for cuddling, the master being a rock that keeps anxious!12 grounded?

i feel like i can do a better job of this but this is what i wrote so

“To Here Knows When”Delgado!Master/12Gennish with some implications, ~2.5k words

Oh, look: there he is again. He’s absolutely everywhere, a sloppy mess strewn across the universe. Leaving a trail of shit and/or smarmy egotistical do-gooder nonsense in his wake. The Doctor.

The Master realizes he’s said that last bit out loud when the barkeep looks at him strangely. “Move along, nothing to see here,” he says, putting some oomph into it. The barkeep moves on.

Not any face he’s met yet, or at least he thinks so - timelines, paradoxes, it’s all a bit of a jumble on the best of days. But he is fairly certain that this one is new. To him, to the world at large. All raw post-regeneration energy, lived with a bit but not fully dissipated. The uncertainty with how he operates his own skin and bones. And a face as striking as that, the Master would like to think he’d remember seeing it before.

His glass is empty but the barkeep is doing a thorough job of following his suggestion. He picks it up, savors the last few drops, staring through to this new Doctor. Alone, apparently. Nursing a half-full glass of something brown. The timeline is creaking around them. This is wrong, the two of them here. It’d be wronger still for them to actually meet.

Thankfully, neither of them have ever had much time for rules. The Master takes advantage of the barkeep’s resolute, studied avoidance to duck behind the counter and grab a bottle of something very old and very expensive, and makes his way over to the Doctor.

The music and the crowd growing louder, too loud, and it doesn’t matter. Might as well be silent, here, now, between the two of them. The world dropping out, just as it always has, despite his best efforts.

You, the Doctor says. Mentally but clear enough it could have been spoken aloud.

And you. The Master is slightly disappointed: the Doctor’s traditional obliviousness to the Master’s presence when under the thinnest of disguises has always been a great source of joy. No disguise now, though. However: a great deal of time.

Far, far too much time. The wrong kinds of time. There’s a Gordian knot of tragedy, atrocity, violence, and so, so much time sitting at the center of the Doctor. The Master feels unusually young and untarnished, comparatively speaking - he does not, of course, let on.

He fills up his glass and tops off the Doctor’s. “I haven’t seen you in centuries. Still insufferable, I trust?”

“Last time I saw you, you were committing suicide by Chancellery Guard.” The Doctor’s tone is flat, brusque. He’s staring straight ahead, at the wall of bottles glinting bright in the spot lighting.

“I imagine I had a plan,” the Master says.

Think you just wanted to die, which was better than you deserved, the Doctor bleeds out, seemingly unwillingly. “Always do,” he says out loud. “So what brings you to town? Genocide? Apocalypse? Another cunning plan?”

“There’s an interesting paleontology exhibit involving what are probably vortisaurs at the local otherwise-worthless backwater-town museum; I had some spare time. I’m specifically here in this bar because I wanted a drink and it had good Yelp reviews. Yourself?”

The Doctor curls in on himself, simultaneously ready to withstand a fight and itching for flight. Knuckles gone white wrapped around the glass. “Avoiding responsibilities. Hiding. Trying to get drunk.” He takes a deep drink of the scotch - such a waste, such things are to be savored - and slams the glass back down on the counter. “S'not working.”

He’s got the expression, the body language, the mental presence like he’s in the company of a ghost, and like he’s not even bothering to process that completely, and like he’s daring and/or begging the Master to do something, anything. Jittery, cocky, half-flung into whatever void. It’s half-familiar and half completely and unsettlingly foreign.

The Master swirls his glass, watching the light play off the liquid. “Something happened,” he assumes. The timeline, again. Some questions should not be asked.

“You could say that.” For all he declared his sobriety, the words are slurred, and when the Master glances over his eyes are unfocused, watery.

Pushing his half-full glass towards the barkeep (still dutifully ignoring him) and screwing the cap back onto the bottle (and then squirreling it away into his deceptively voluminous coat pocket), he stands up, claps the Doctor firmly on the back. “Good to see you again, my dear, but I must be off. Til next time?”

Come with me, he thinks. Putting some English on it, turning it up loud enough for even the weakest telepath to hear.

“Yeah. Til the next time.” The Doctor’s still staring directly at whatever imagined middle-distance. Maybe his eyes flicker over, just for a split-second. Maybe.

The Master leaves, carving a path straight through the crowd. He waits for a while, outside the door, the fresh air hitting him harder than he would have expected or liked; waits just long enough to be sure the Doctor is following him.

He could kill the Doctor. Loose and elsewhere as he is, it wouldn’t take much. It never does happen, though. The Master makes a mistake, the Doctor has a stroke of good luck. Or vice versa. One way or another, neither of them ever wins. Or loses. Neither of them ever dies.

The Doctor stumbles along behind him. Does he know he’s this much? This violent spill-out, harsh and brash, all live-wire energy? Probably not, self-awareness was never his strong suit.

“Let me guess. You’ve infiltrated the local…fish people, and you’re using them as leverage to stage a coup on the palace, which will enable you to be Queen of Hell for all eternity.”

“Like I said. The natural history museum here has a fantastic exhibit of vortisaur skeletons.”

They reach the front door of the house the Master may or may not have killed one or more people to acquire, and may or may not be now technically squatting in. He pulls out his keys, the metal jingling. The Doctor stares at him, unfathomable, endless and slightly pathetic and brutally focused.

“Didn’t know you were capable of existing in anything other than a castle or a crypt,” the Doctor says, looking at the Master like he can see completely through him, and like he’s managing to not see anything at all.

“Needs must,” the Master says, opening the door to the modest terraced home, sliding the keys back into his pocket, alongside the stolen scotch, and closing the door behind them.

Once inside, the Doctor seems entirely more sober. Nervous, wary, nosy. Opening drawers and pawing through bookcases. Leaving things knocked off on the ground, like an especially petulant cat.

The Master goes to put the kettle on for tea. It’s only polite, after all. He leaves the scotch in his pocket for a rainy day. They’re both drunk enough, wouldn’t do to go overboard here.

“I’m more for coffee, these days,” the Doctor calls out. There’s a muffled thump, and then a muffled curse, and a brief burst of activity. “Extra-sweet.”

“I don’t have any coffee, I’m afraid.” He considers pulling out his best biscuits - this Doctor is whipcord-lean but he’s always had a sweet tooth, they would undoubtedly be appreciated - but it seems a bit too much. Too homey. A normal thing for normal people. And besides, he’s run low, and what’s left he’d rather keep for himself. He closes the cupboard door, saving the Hobnobs for the future.

There’s another round of crash-noises and invectives and the Doctor appears in the doorway to the kitchen, hair on end, breathless. “You gonna kill me?” he asks. The question seems to be genuine.

He considers. Maybe. Possibly. Right now? No. “Potentially,” he says, pouring the boiling water into two mismatched mugs. The Doctor nods, distracted, watching the steam rise.

They’re drinking tea, normal as you like. The Master with a pleasingly angular, modernist sort of contraption, black with lemon; the Doctor with a Sports Direct mug filled alarmingly close to the brim with milk and sugar. It’s an absurd situation. The timeline is straining around them; if he does want to or plans on killing the Doctor, it won’t work out. It never does.

And besides, the Doctor feels as much like luck and ashes as he ever has. More so, too much so. Clinging to life out of spite and a clumsy, unacknowledged self-assurance; unkillable, unknowable. The bastard’s been hanging on by the skin of his teeth and the confidence of an old-blood Time Lord for as long as the Master can remember. That contradiction of a Lungbarrow orphan, both privileged and left for dead. And now: like that’s happened over and over and over again.

Plus, apparently, a whole entire war (or two) and then some other hinted-at things; the Master does not ask for, as the Doctor would call them, ‘spoilers’. The Doctor is babbling, as is expected; insults, braggadocio, stream-of-consciousness asides. It’s almost charming. The Master is, despite himself, nearly charmed.

In a moment which may be described as weakness, the Master reaches out, puts his hand on the Doctor’s wrist, when he’s looking especially broken and like he doesn’t realize that oh, and the last time I died is not anything meant to be said in a normal, casual tone of voice - he puts his hand on the skin exposed when the Doctor’s cuffs ride up on a dramatic gesture at the tail-end of an especially excited sentence.

Mistake. A misjudgment. The Master internally rolls his eyes as the Doctor slaps his hand away.

“Don’t,” he snaps. Voice hoarse, more high-pitched than it’s been these past few hours. Stands up, takes two steps back, vibrating like he’s trying to shake right out of his skin. A look in his eyes like part of him is somewhere else entirely.

The Master holds his hands by his shoulders, palms open, placating. No threat here, see? “That’s changed as well, then?” He does not betray the mix of insult, disappointment, a certain undefinable sense of loss-to-come.

“I beg your pardon?” The anxiety and distance drift closer to a more familiar absent-mindedness. Familiar in a slightly wrong way, though, as if he’s flipping through a list of all the people he’s been and trying to decide which one he’s meant to be now.

“You used to like it when I touched you.”

The Doctor huffs a breath roughly through his nose: a laugh, nearly. “Yeah. That. Ah, d'you remember, when we were kids?”

Most of it, yes. The Master waits patiently, mentally sorting through and cataloguing how the familiarity has slipped into something more particular. Cadence, accent, the way the Doctor is holding himself now.

“They said I had a natural aptitude, for the.” He gestures at his head. “Psychic stuff. And then they said I had no discipline, couldn’t control it, and they were right. Think I made it to one of the workshops. Out of fifteen. Passed on the second go, though, got there eventually. But it’s like that, now. Again. Touch a damn rock, I can feel it, all of it. Touch anything sentient - well. And you…”

Poor thing, that’s an unprecedented amount of sharing in general and it appears to be especially overmuch for this one. Must’ve taken it out of him, the dear. The Master tries to not overtly, pruriently enjoy the raw, raspy, cracked desperation in the Doctor’s voice.

(And there’s more there, more than just that admission. The way the Doctor is looking at him, scared, judgmental; something will happen there. He chooses not to push. What will come, will come. No sense getting tangled up in the will-be’s.)

“I could put my gloves on,” the Master says. And maybe he can enjoy it, just a bit. “You used to like it when I wore gloves.”

The Doctor laughs again, a touch more genuine this time. “I did, yeah.”

“We had fun, didn’t we,” the Master says, chuckling with only the barest, most delicate amount of Evil Charm. He stretches out, hands settling down by his sides: on the edge of his perception, the softest of mental brushes, he can feel the Doctor blaring out indiscriminately on all channels. The confused dread, the self-loathing, the bit-down-on panic; a snapshot of the Master’s gloved hand closing around his throat, around the cock he’d apparently bumbled into giving himself, pale and reedy as the rest of him (the Doctor had never been any good at the very basic task of choosing a goal during regeneration, but he’d previously chanced once or thrice on a version of the far superior interior genitalia; not this time, apparently).

In this moment of tender vulnerability, the Master politely only spends approximately 15% of his attention on what’s between the Doctor’s legs. He isn’t an animal. And he can sense that the blatant eroticism is, if not exactly forced, then something born more out of nostalgia - out of familiarity - than anything the Doctor truly wants.

So.

The Master withdraws as he moves his physical body closer. The Doctor flinches, but stands his ground, a predictable ‘go on I dare you’ expression on his face. The Master retrieves his gloves from his coat pocket - the Doctor flinches again, and speaking of nostalgia: that skittish fuck-off/fuck you/fuck me/fuck this wildness is erasing the outlines of this Doctor and leaving a small, defiant Thete in their wake.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” the Master says.

The Doctor exhales. Disappointed? Relieved? Something else entirely? “Didn’t say you would.”

“But I would like - ” The Master breathes in carefully, leaning only just against the spiky edge of what the Doctor is. “Forgive me. I’ve become sentimental in my relative old age. And I’ve missed you.” He says it like he means it, and potentially he does mean it, but there’s enough camp and irony there for it to not mean anything at all. “May I hold your hand?”

The Doctor stares at him, eyes wide, brows furrowed. The tea’s going cold, the Master is losing his patience.

“When you knew me,” the Doctor starts. Very carefully, enunciating clearly in that accent he has now. “Was I a good man?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” the Master says. Fantastic, more ego-stroking.

“Because I’m not entirely sure, now. Of either of those.” The Doctor is still staring, and he’s so open and vulnerable and, in the cheap lighting of this cheap house, impossibly beautiful, and he’s, what, looking for the Master’s approval?

He tries not to appreciate that too much. Closes a firm mental fist around whatever it is that’s building up inside him. In the both of them. “You are eternally, obnoxiously ‘good’.”

This is maybe the right answer. The Doctor doesn’t quite relax, but when the Master extends their hand in the human fashion, the Doctor takes it, and then lets himself be pulled forward. The Master’s arm around him, the Doctor leans against his chest, head tucked under his chin, nuzzling against the fabric of his coat.

It should be embarrassing. It is embarrassing, a bit, but it’s also…nice? Ammunition, for sure, the next time he comes up against the Doctor. Remember that time you wanted to cuddle?

He should say something, now. Make a move. He has his plans. But they can wait, surely. He can bide his time. And, Rassilon help him, he can’t quite bring himself to hurt Thete. Not now, not like this, not when he’s clinging to him like an angry limpet. So he leads him to the bedroom, pulls the covers back, glares just hard enough for Thete to get his boots off at least, and then tucks the two of them in. At a safe distance, his hands nearby but not touching, his face close but not too close. The Doctor looks like he’s torn between fear and a long-lost sense of peace.

“We’ll forget this,” the Master reminds him. “So why not just enjoy it?”

“This, yeah. Whatever it is,” he mutters. “Probably a scheme. Bet you’d like me forgetting it, so you can go do your dastardly deeds without me trying to stop you.” But he breathes out, and the edges of him soften, and they are almost, almost holding hands.

(Either of those, he’d said. He’d been a girl, once. The Master rolled the pronouns around in his head, trying to come up with the right word for this arsehole currently curled up and sighing, squirming incrementally towards him. The Doctor shifts around, and nudges their back against the Master’s chest, and then they both briefly black out; the idiot never did know how to regulate their telepathy.)

#craftysquidz #best enemies #dw fanfic #is #12/delgado!master #even a thing #it should be #promptapalooza

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manawhaat · 7 years

Text

Knight In Dark Flannel

Title: Knight In Dark Flannel

Characters: Claire x Dean, Sam, Mick, brief mentions of Cas.

Summary: Dean can’t shake the anxiety, the thoughts of how this all could have been so much worse. Claire is in the same boat, and the two of them turn to each other for relief.

Warnings: Spn s12 spoilers, slightly angsty feels, slight anxiety, smut of all kinds (Including unprotected. Don’t follow my bad example, wrap it up, kids.), virgin!Claire (mostly virgin), Sam hoarding stealing free food for Dean because they’re fucking adorable little vulture babies.

Word Count: 5k

A/n: HUGE HUGE HUGE thank you to @mrswhozeewhatsis for being brilliant, thorough, and fucking wonderful as fuck, and to both her and @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid for taking the time to beta this fic. I also used the whole italic thing in this fic more than I think I ever have, so there’s that, and it’s also present tense, which was a bitch for my past tense self to write.

** It’s set during 12x16 Ladies Drink Free, so if you’re not up to date, be warned that there will be spoilers. And if you aren’t into Claire and Dean fucking and you’re already all judgy, just scroll past this and don’t wast your (or my) time reading something you’re going to hate. If you do read this, thank you! (And let me know what you think <3) **

Dean had a daughter... at one point… she’s dead, now, but he is, technically, a father- a protector- and always has been, even before the age of six. He started with Sam, and the instinct to watch out for others has followed him through his life from person to person, never really giving him a choice in the matter when the flight or fight moments arise. Sure, he’s a rambler, but he never puts himself before anyone else, especially not anyone whom he’s come to love.

Silence surrounds the four as Baby holds Mick, Claire, and the Winchesters safe. It’s been one hell of a night and Dean’s eyes keep shooting back to where Sam and Claire are sitting in the back seat. At that douchewad werewolf’s house, she’d been able to take advantage of his running water and clean her up enough to not look conspicuous when they reach the hotel. As Dean keeps glancing back, she looks fine, normal, even, but that doesn’t change any of what he’s seen her go through tonight, or the concern he feels for her well being that he just can’t shake. It’s an itch under his skin that he just can’t scratch and it’s making him antsy. When the Impala is driven off by some young valet, Claire finally risks a look at Dean.

‘Poor, bastard,’ she thinks to herself, watching him try to shake off what she can only assume is agitation. She’s come to care way too much about him for her own damn good. Little does she know, he feels the same way about her.

“We’ll be adding a room for the young Miss, tonight,” Mick says kindly to the man at the front desk, and it’s his voice, so fucking British and out of place, that snaps her out of her daze.

“Oh, I don’t need a whole extra room,” Claire interrupts in a rush, her voice effectively stopping the men and demanding their attention. “It might be nice to not be alone tonight.” She ignores the question in the back of her mind of why she doesn’t want to be alone. It’s because it’s been a long day and she was a werewolf for most of it, not because Dean’s still got that nervous, over-caffeinated look about him.

“You can bunk with me,” Sam smiles down at her.

God, Sam’s nice, but he’s not the kind of comfort she wants tonight. She wants quiet understanding and dumb jokes, not overly perceptive prodding and polite distance. “And have you steal all the conditioner? Sorry, Fabio,” Claire laughs a little, shifting her gaze between the brothers. “I can just crash on Dean’s couch. You said they were suites, right?”

As the words leave her mouth, Sam and Dean’s expressions are identical. The looks on their faces say, ‘What the fuck?’, but their parted mouths remain silent. Unphased by the request, Mick shoots Claire a curt smile and makes for the elevator, the two gawking men left behind when Claire rolls her eyes and follows after the Brit. A quiet thank you falls from her lips and Mick simply nods before entering his room, Sam smiling wide when she turns and thanks him, the two wrapping each other in their arms before Dean’s key card is snatched from his mildly shaky hands.

Alone in his room, Dean watches as Claire kicks around a bit before falling onto his bed with a dramatic huff. He’s not sure what her deal is, but he’s not letting it phase him; instead, he’s getting comfortable, taking off his 80 fucking layers and is down to his jeans and tee, bare feet on the hardwood that just feels so different from the shaggy, stained carpet in his usual kind of joint. The itch under his skin is ramped up, now, even though she’s safe in the same room, and he fumbles with his bag while he questions it. The whole time he’s been trying to avoid her, give her some space to think or whatever-the-fuck while he mills around the room, but when he turns and sees her sitting there with what look like tears in her eyes, he takes a step toward her. She’s usually so feisty, so hardened and filled with the same sass and sarcasm he holds, but here in this quiet room, after all that’s happened, she’s shooting up and pushing herself into his chest, holding onto him and burying her face in his shoulder when he wraps his arms around her and smooths his hands over her back.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay, Claire. You’re okay. I got you. You’re safe,” Dean coos, thoughts running wild and worrying between every worst case scenario that’s crossed his mind about her in the last 24 hours. As he holds her, his brow furrows while his hands try to reassure him that she’s there, she’s whole, she’s human, she’s safe, she’s okay.

After what feels like hours, but was probably only seconds, she finally loosens her hold on him. It’s quiet, but she thanks him ‘for everything’ with a shy smile, and he simply nods before letting her go, grabbing his sweatpants, and heading into the bathroom. When he comes out, Claire’s changed, sitting at the edge of the king sized bed in a black tank and grey boxers. For a number of reasons, he winces before he decides he doesn’t even want to know where, or who, those came from. ‘Some dude’ would be her answer if he asked, though, Target would be the truth. For Dean, thinking about the boxers is safer than thinking about the thin, skimpy tank top, or how this is most he’s ever seen of Claire, well, ever.

The air is thicker, laced with tension that she’s radiating, so Dean shakes off his own thoughts, leans against the edge of the desk, and stares her down the way only Dean Winchester can. Claire’s looking at her hands, her feet, the door, anything but his green eyes, and she’s shifting as if she’s avoiding saying something.

“Are....are you gonna tell Cas?” she finally asks, her voice quiet and wavering like the remorseful child she’d swear she isn’t, and Dean smiles a bit.

“Probably.” He shrugs his shoulders and sniffs, putting on his best “disapproving authority figure” face.

“He’s not my dad, ya know,” she huffs, the look on her face telling him that she doesn’t want Cas worrying about her, hidden beneath a layer of lingering teenage rebellion, of course.

“I know,” he nods.

“Neither are you, Dean,” she says, voice laced with something. For his own sanity, Dean tries to ignore that something. She’s so young; too young, for that. Isn’t she?

“Doesn’t mean I don’t care,” he shrugs. “Doesn’t mean that this-” he gestures to her, between them- “whole thing, you hunting, everything that happened tonight…” Dean takes a long breath and lets his eyes fall closed before steeling himself and meeting her gaze. “Doesn’t mean that you don’t scare the shit outta me.”

“Teenage girl scaring the shit out of Dean Winchester?” Claire’s eyes sparkle as she laughs in spite of herself. She’s trying to keep up her facade, but Dean sees right through it.

“Yeah, Claire, you scare the shit out of me.” The weight of his words make her stiffen just a bit as Dean’s body pushes off the desk he’s leaning against. “Just like Sam does. Just like Cas does. Just like- like my mom, and-and Jody, and everyone else in my life that I can’t lose,” he explains, almost rambling. “You’re part of that. You-” he breaks mid-word to scrub a hand over his face, stepping closer and pacing a little right in front of her, trying to release a little of the anxiety that still clings to him from the events of the day.

Claire pushes herself to her feet and is reaching out for him, saying, “Hey, in case you didn’t notice, you didn’t lose me. I’m still here, old man,” and smiling softly when he stops and stares down at her. His eyes pin her in place, and she cranes her neck to hold his gaze. He’s so tall; she often forgets how big Dean is.

“Damn right you are,” he sighs in relief, reaching out and cupping her face, laying a long kiss to her temple and wrapping his arms around as much of her as he can, holding her close.

Dean’s fingers get lost in her blonde hair, and her hands come up to hold onto his arms, feeling his thick muscles tense when he pulls back and catches those blue eyes of hers. There’s a moment of fear that passes through them both, thoughts of what could have happened, of how much agony she’d been in. Dean’s reliving it all, having to stop his brain from going back to that time when he had to step outside because he couldn’t handle seeing her in so much pain. When he stood outside, still able to hear her screams and grunts while tears threatened to overwhelm him at the thought of her dying so painfully. What would he tell Jody? What would he tell Cas? What would he tell himself when he looked in the mirror? Claire marvels at how revealing Dean’s eyes are, no less revealing than a movie screen with the events of the day playing right there in front of her. She squeezes his arms and he’s back, seeing her in front of him, whole and safe. Then, his lips are on her face once more; pressing across her cheek, over her nose and forehead, and with an acutely and decidedly conscious slant of her head, her lips are pressing against his. He tries to pull back, thinking it’s some kind of mistake, but her mouth follows his, keeping their lips to one another’s; soft, closed, until she parts her lips and lets his notch into hers.

It’s new. Odd. Wrong? But it feels so right. They have so much chemistry, so much likeness in them that when she stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips closer to his, Dean lets it happen instead of pulling away like that voice in his head tells him he should. In that moment, he is lost, and not sure he ever wants to be found.

The kiss is long, slow, with just a little push and pull and the faintest whimpers Dean’s ever heard being sighed into his mouth at the taste of his tongue and feel of his scruff. Each little sound sends a thrill up and down his spine and settles deep and warm in his belly. When they finally pull away, Claire tries and fails to hide her blush, grabbing his wrist and leading him to the bed. Her eyes plead with him, and he can’t say no. Not when she’s looking at him like that; not after everything that’s happened tonight. At that moment, he’d give her the world if she asked, and offer to strap it to Baby’s roof and haul it around for her if she wanted.

When he’s settled in beneath the soft covers and the light’s turned off, she inches closer until he gets the hint and wraps her in his arms. Their chests are pressed together, hearts trying to match the other’s beat and failing with every shift of their bodies. They’re just hugging, his chin atop her head, legs loosely tangled, but It’s so exhilarating. As the shock wears off and they begin lulling into each other, she tilts her head and noses along his sharp jaw.

The action is enough to jumpstart their hearts again, and their skin on skin contact is almost like a live wire, shooting electricity through their bloodstream. She moves her arm from beneath his and smooths her hand up the cords of muscle, her chipped black fingernails pushing through his hair and gently pulling his lips back to hers.

Claire knows what to expect now. She knows how soft and warm and perfect he is when he kisses her. She knows how fucking full Dean’s lips are, how they slide against hers and how his tongue knows just how to press and flick and make her feel things she’s never even dared to dream of before. But Dean’s full of tricks, full of life and experience that comes with his age. He can keep her guessing and on her toes ‘till she’s thirty, but now’s not the time for any of that. Everything between them is too delicate, so he lets her lips slide against his, lets her hands hold him, and kisses her right back.

Their mouths are unstoppable and before either can realize, the kiss turns heady, desperate, full of too much emotion on both ends for either of them to stop. Dean pushes against Claire ‘till she’s under him. She’s so fragile, so small, her fair skin smooth under his hands as he starts exploring, slipping his calloused fingers under the hem of her tank and up her stomach.

Dean knows he’s probably pushing some kind of boundary, so he stops, his breath fanning over her lips as he speaks. “If you’re uncomfortable or anything, Claire, you gotta tell me. I’ll stop, no problem. All you gotta do is ask.” His offer is earnest and she gets it, but she has no plans on stopping this now that it’s started.

“Don’t,” she pleads. “Don’t stop.” Her voice doesn’t hold an ounce of uncertainty, so, nodding her consent with her small hands guiding his, Dean continues.

On Dean’s journey over Claire’s body, she can’t stop writhing. She’s eager and almost anxious when they start pulling off each other’s clothes. Dean’s left in only his boxers and she can feel him hardening against her thigh as he sucks marks to her neck. He finds the spot on her shoulder that bore a monster’s bite just hours earlier and erases that memory by taking the skin into his own mouth and marking it for himself. Rough hands push her tank up and over her head, sending shivers down her spine. He works his way down her chest, eyes closed while he latches onto a nipple and sucks, swirling his tongue and revelling in the way she calls his name. The sound prompts him to pull away, flick his eyes up to hers, and reattach his mouth to the other nipple, watching her face contort as he teases her.

Peppering wet kisses and marks down her body, Dean is lying on his stomach, knocking her knees open around his broad shoulders and smoothing his hands up her thighs. His freckled hands swallow them before coming to rest on her hip and stomach while she props herself up on her elbows to watch, insecurity in her eyes and her messy blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and breasts. She knows what’s coming, but she needs to see Dean’s face when he does it; needs to see his face and all the comfort that it brings her as she enters this unknown territory with him; with Dean. The man’s been some kind of mentor for her from the time Cas took Jimmy from her life. Dean’s been there; teaching her how to hunt, showing her how accept her new family and life with Jody, and making her feel safe when no one else could. Trusting Dean with this, well, it’s the easiest thing she could do.

Pleasure like she’s never known bursts through her when Dean’s mouth meets her core, the thin material of her panties not enough to keep out the wet heat of his tongue and mouth from seeping into her skin. With the way she’s looking right now, Dean can’t wait to get her panties off, see her spread open and taste her properly, so he doesn’t. The sound of fabric ripping is both exhilarating and shocking to her as Dean rips her panties at the side seams, smirking like the bastard he is and tossing the destroyed garment over his shoulder.

“Those were my favorite pair,” Claire huffs, poorly stifling a smile.

“I’ll buy you another pair,” Dean grins cockily, using his broad hands to push her thighs open. The smile curling Dean’s lips falters and he puckers, blows a long breath over her pussy and grips her thighs when a small hiss escapes her pink lips. “Goddamn,” Dean marvels, using his fingers to gently touch her, smoothing his fingertips over her lips and spreading them slowly, watching her expressions before swiping the pad of his thumb up her slit to spread her arousal up to her clit.

“Whoa,” she gasps, and hips buck involuntarily at the contact with her sensitive nub.

“I already told you, sweetheart, if this is too much, just tell me,” Dean offers again, laying kisses to her inner thighs, the look on her face making him feel like she’s hiding something.

“Fuck.” She’s conflicted, breathing heavily, and turning a light shade of pink with Dean, not some random guy from school or wherever-the-fuck, so close to her.

“What is it, baby girl?”

“Baby girl, huh?” Claire huffs in near annoyance. “Dean...I-” she stops before she can even start.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean’s cooing, sliding up her body and taking her face in his hands. She won’t meet his eyes and he knows that whatever it is it’s big for her, hard for her to spit out.

“This is...I-” she stops mid sentence again. “I’ve never,” Claire finally gets out, voice quiet, cheeks red, eyes looking anywhere but Dean’s. “I mean, I’ve done stuff, but-”

“You’re a virgin...” Dean smiles and Claire forces her evading gaze to his face, shocked when she doesn’t find a drop of disappointment in his eyes. “That’s nothing to worry about, sweetheart. We all were at one point, this just tells me that this is that much more special for you...if you want to keep going, of course.”

Dean’s offer is clear and she regards him for a long moment, searching for any flicker in his reassuring eyes. They’re so fucking green, and he’s so soft, warm, understanding. It’s all so much it almost hurts, but she wants it, needs it, now more than ever; to feel connected to someone like this, and Dean is the best person she can think of to have her virginity.

‘Not like you’re saving it or anything,’ she’s thinking to herself, smirking a little before wrapping her arms around the man above her and pulling him in for a kiss that tells him everything he needs to know.

Now Dean’s kissing his way back down to the crux of her legs, lips ghosting over her pussy long enough for him to bask in the fact that he’s going to be the first person to truly worship and satisfy her before leaning in and settling his mouth over her. The first noise she lets out has him fighting his every desire to wreck her, make her cum in 2.5 seconds and fuck her into the mattress. However, it’s her first time; she was shy about admitting it, and Dean has zero plans of fucking this up for her. He’s all about pleasing his partners, and Claire is too special to him.

Dean takes care of her, shows her how gentle he can be, how good he can make her feel, what it’s like to have a man worship her body and draw the breath from her lungs in acute pleasure. He’s moving his mouth over her, tasting and sucking and gripping her hips when she cums for the first time. It’s the first orgasm that she hasn’t given herself, and it’s Dean’s to cherish, draw out, and work her through.

Claire is sucking in breaths like the air is vanishing from the room as she comes down, her blue eyes fluttering open to see Dean pushing his boxers off and stroking himself slowly. She’s never actually seen a dick in real life, and the sight of it has a heat flooding her lower belly. He’s thick, long, and she can’t resist reaching out to feel his skin, drawing back hesitantly when he hisses at the contact.

“It’s okay, Claire,” he rasps, looking down at her, and the way her name sounds coming out of his mouth has her own watering and her hand reaching back out, wrapping around him and moving experimentally. The way he grunts is a good enough sign that she’s not fucking it up, so she continues, pumping and spreading precum over his shaft and watching this man she’s known since she was a little girl rock and roll his hips toward her. It’s driving Dean wild the way she’s touching him, so inexperienced but such a natural, and she’s growing eager, yearning to feel him inside her.

“Okay, fuck-Claire, lay back, sweetheart,” Dean groans, moving her hand away from his length and stalking her up the bed.

“Should we use a condom?” she asks, feeling stupid as it comes out of her mouth.

“Probably,” Dean laughs a little, “I’ve got one in my bag,” he says.

It’s a quick thought that has her reaching out and stopping him before he can move off of her, saying, “It’s okay. I mean, you’re clean, this is my first time...you can pull out or I can take something tomorrow. I-I wanna feel you, Dean,” she admits, cheeks rosy for the millionth time tonight.

Her bold words are surprising, but if she’s okay with it, then Dean is, too. “Claire, are you sure?” And there it is, her name on his lips, driving her wild and making her slam her mouth against his, her kiss giving him the answer he’s looking for.

The weight of his head at her entrance is new, hell, all of it is new, but with Dean, she’s ready for it. Their eyes are locked and he’s prepared to stop at any sign of uncertainty, but she knows what she wants, and she practically begs for it when Dean slowly starts pushing in.

Claire’s walls are hot around him, so fucking tight, and the way she’s breathing deep and licking her lips and digging her fingers into his skin tells him that she’s enjoying it so far. So, he pushes further, stopping when she winces slightly and continuing after she gives him the green light. Pressed together like this, Dean’s mind lands on the thought of Cas and what he’d say if he knew what was happening right now. He knows that Cas isn’t her father, but Jimmy was, and without him here, Cas is the closest thing to a dad that Claire has.

“Whatever you’re thinking, knock it off,” she huffs under him, seeing the thought on his face and pushing it away, bringing him back into the moment. “Dean, move,” she begs, legs wriggling in anticipation and a moan falling from her lips as he draws out.

Their movements happen so naturally, and before either can realise, Dean’s showing her how a man is supposed to treat a woman, what the meaning of ‘making love’ is, and she’s there for it; eyes screwed shut and hands digging into his skin, arching up into him and meeting him thrust for thrust. He’s making sure it’s all about her, that she’s being taken care of and that her first time isn’t just some split decision fuck. He wants the first kisses and touches to have meaning for her, and he’s happy he’s the one able to give that to her. It’s been a fucking emotional night, and a lot of feelings he didn’t realize he had are now hanging in the air between them as he presses and pulls and grinds his hips into hers.

“Dean!” That unmistakable ‘almost there’ is laced in her voice when she cries out his name, and he’s quick to press his lips to hers.

“It’s okay, I’m right here, Claire. Go ahead, let it happen.”

Dean’s encouragement surrounds her and his efforts double. Claire’s fingers are going white as they dig into Dean’s arms, shoulders, back, and ass, her body covered in sweat and Dean’s breath on her lips when that pit in her stomach opens up and swallows her whole.

It’s like nothing she’s felt before when she cums, walls fluttering around the cock pushing in and out of her, body arching up and vision going black for a second while her world crumbles around her. She can hear Dean in the back of her head, past the sound of her blood rushing through her veins. He’s grunting her name, growling, ‘fuck, fuck, Claire, honey, I-’ before he starts cumming inside her. Dean makes an effort to pull out, but he’s already in her, and she wants to feel it all, so her hands pull at his hips and she lifts her own up off the bed to keep him inside her as he pulses and makes noises that only leave her wanting more.

As Dean fills her, continues to pump his hips into hers, Claire can feel the slick mixture of their arousals sopping out of her, spreading onto her lips and sliding down between her cheeks. Their breaths are ragged and Dean is slumping into her, groaning her name and letting his weight push her into the mattress as she claws at his back, writhing and moaning as her orgasm stretches into a second, smaller one. She shudders with pleasure as he pulls out, his fingers reaching between them to rub her clit in small circles and work her through it, wetness coating his fingertips as his cum slowly oozes out of her. It’s an odd feeling, but she can get past it as she comes down with Dean pressing kisses to her parted mouth.

The moment that’s hanging between them when their orgasms wear off is one of pure connectivity. They can’t tear their eyes off each other and their lips are like magnets as they bask in their afterglow, only breaking apart when Dean forces himself to pull away and grab a washcloth to clean up.

Once they’re settled back in the bed, with Dean’s arms wrapped around her again, Claire breaks her silence, quietly saying, “Dean?” He hums and she takes a breath. “Can we not tell anyone about this?” she asks.

Dean laughs a little and replies, “Duh,”, the two of them sharing a smile and kiss before falling into sleep.

Morning comes faster than it should, and they take it slow, showering together and leaving kisses on each other’s skin. And when they’re dressed and ready to head downstairs, Dean stops her with his hand around her wrist.

Bringing her hand up to his lips, he places a soft kiss to her knuckles, smiling down at the young woman before him. “Claire, I-”

“Stop,” she cuts him off. “Whatever you’re gonna say, just...don’t.” She sighs and pushes a hand through her hair before continuing. “I don’t know what this is, what last night was,” she breathes out a laugh, “other than amazing…” and he’s beaming back down at her, “but let’s just leave it alone for now. Figure it out later,’ she suggests, and he agrees.

Dean can’t be chasing something with his best friend’s ‘daughter’, especially not right now, but he’s betting that he won’t be able to get her out of his head for a while to come. He’s smiling almost foolishly and she can’t help but roll her blue eyes before leaning in and kissing him good and long before grabbing her shit and making her way out of his room and to the elevator.

This place has a continental breakfast, and Claire is chuckling to herself as she sits at the small table with Mick and Sam, tea and a scone in front of the Brit and a feast made of free food in front of Sam. Dean is nowhere to be found, but when Sam starts stashing bagels and donuts wrapped in napkins into his jacket pockets, she can only assume they’re for Dean to eat the road. When they eat their fill, the three make their way out front just in time for Baby to pull up to the valet entrance.

“Gassed and ready to go,” Dean affirms to Sam as he makes his way to the trio.

“Well, good luck, Claire,” Mick smiles, shaking her hand. Claire curtly thanks him before he takes his seat in Baby’s backseat.

Turning to Sam and Dean, she can only think, ‘God, these assholes are like the big brothers I never asked for.’ But Dean, he can’t fill that space anymore, and she’s okay with it.

Sam hugs her long and warm, as always, and Dean’s body is solid against hers when she wraps her arms around his shoulders, and she can’t help but breathe him in so she can have it as a lasting memory, at least until she sees him again. Dean does the same, holding her a second longer than he should if he doesn’t want Sam to get suspicious. Breaking away from her is about the hardest thing he’s had to do in a while, and thinking of her being out in the world, alone, hunting, scares the shit out of him. He has to let her go, though. He has to, whether he likes it or not.

She’s walking to her car, then, bags in hand when the sounds of boots nearing ring in her ears. When she turns, Dean’s jogging toward her, brown bag in hand.

“Something for the road,” he says, dumbly amused with his choice of words. Claire chuckles when she opens the bag and finds a box of ‘Plan B’, a couple of candy bars, and a small wad of money.

“You’re so old,” she giggles. “Thanks,” she smiles, stepping forward and kissing his cheek while the others aren’t looking.

Dean shoots a wink down at her and it has her heart constricting in her chest, not wanting to leave. But she has to, so she tosses her bags in the back and plops down into the driver’s seat, pulling out of the parking lot with green eyes in her rear view, and god-knows-what in her future. Dean stands in the parking lot watching her car disappear into the distance, sending up a prayer to a God he hopes might listen, just this once, to keep her safe until she’s back under his protection again.

#claire x dean #dean x claire #clairedean #spn #supernatural #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #spn s12 #spn s12 spoilers #spn spoilers #12x16

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quicksilver-rain · 7 years

Text

The Bee Mariner (p.7)

“I should have know it was you.” (It was always you)

It’s fairly warm, despite the fact that it’s very nearly approaching winter, and Trixie is standing out in the middle of a field that’s usually bursting with wildflowers, watching smoke rise into the sky. It’s her day off, and usually she lazes in bed for a few hours before going shopping for the week’s groceries, but today she’s woken up early and has made the snap decision to set something on fire and make s’mores. Well, it’s either that or take apart the toaster, and Sierra threatened her with a wickedly sharp chef’s knife last time Trixie got the urge to dismantle their kitchen appliances.

It’s not a very hard decision, even if Trixie doesn’t think Sierra has the guts to actually commit to homicide.

She shakes her head and looks out across the aforementioned field. The flowers are dying and there aren’t many bees around, despite the fact that Sierra’s told her that the little bastards won’t go into hibernation until around the first frost. There’s something sad and lonely about the whole thing, like the field and dying flowers stretch out forever and she’s the only person around for miles and all this smoke and fire is all just an attempt to prove to herself that she isn’t alone.

Sierra would say she’s got a poet’s soul. Trixie would argue that winter’s depressing.

Either way, she shakes the thoughts away, looking down at her more smoke-than-fire flirtation with arson, breathing in hickory scented smoke and turning over her marshmallows before they can burn.

“I should have known it was you.”

The sound of another human being makes her jump, and the feeling that there’s more to the blase statement rubs her the wrong way.

Trixie turns to find Nix standing by the gate she’d climbed to get into the field wearing a puffy vest in lieu of a proper jacket, hands in the pockets of his jeans as he studies her. There’s a large, wrinkly dog standing next to him without a lead, watching her silently. He looks amused and she can’t help the way the corner of her mouth ticks upward.

“You mean I’m not the only thing you think of?” she asks, watching as he laughs and rolls his eyes, removing his hands from his pockets and hopping the fence in one fluid movement while the dog crawls under the beams a few feet away.

He stops beside her and the dog stops beside him, both watching as she crouches down and removes her marshmallows from the fire to make a pair of s’mores. Trixie’s immediately endeared by the look of surprise that flickers over Nix’s face when she offers one to him. He accepts it and takes a bite, somehow not getting all sticky in the process, “are you bribing me?”

She lifts her eyebrows and takes a bite from her own s’more instead of answering right away. Her face gets all sticky, but she brought a pack of wet wipes for exactly this eventuality, so she ignores it, “should I be?”

Nix directs his attention elsewhere for a moment popping the rest of the s’more in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before looking back at her. “Technically, you’re trespassing on my property,” he offers, though he doesn’t sound like he’s going to tell her to pack her shit and go.

Trixie laughs, “am I? I don’t see your name on it.”

He actually reaches for her then, pausing to let her push him away and placing a hand on her shoulder when she doesn’t. He pulls her around better face the gate they both climbed over, gesturing at a sign tacked to one of the posts that she ignored but probably states that Nix Nightingale owns this field and please stay out of it without permission.

Trixie smiles up at him, looking back and resting her head on his shoulder, since he hasn’t let go of her yet, “you gonna charge me?”

Nix laughs again and drops his hands, returning them to his pockets. Trixie straightens and stays close enough that their arms are brushing. “No, but your fire’s smoking out my bees. They need to finish stocking up for winter, or I’ll end up having to feed them soda syrup.” He somehow pronounces the ‘y’ in syrup and Trixie wants to laugh as she reaches down to feed the dog a marshmallow.

Instead she looks down to study her makeshift fire pit, it’s small and surrounded by bricks she’s stolen from the pile out near their back door, an empty reminder of that time her father decided to make a walkway from the back door to the front door before promptly getting too wrapped up in painting to actually finish the project. She looks back up at her companion and thinks that her father would like to paint him, too. He looks so stark and enigmatic against the cloudy grey sky that even Trixie wants to give it a try, and the best she can do is smudgy pencil drawings of engine parts.

She mentally shakes herself.

“You feed them soda syrup?” she asks, genuinely curious about bees for the first time in her life.

He nods, and then shakes his head as if he can’t make up his mind, “it’s sugar water, actually, and I try not to if I can’t help it.” He pauses to watch the dog chew on it’s marshmallow. There’s drool everywhere and Trixie notices that he hasn’t actually told her to put out her fire yet. “I will if they can’t make enough honey to last the winter, though.” He gestures at the smoke the fire’s belching into the sky.

Trixie shoves the rest of her treat in her mouth and leans down to grab the bucket of water she’d collected from one of the many water pumps dotting the surrounding area. She dumps it on the meagre flames with very little preamble, thinking maybe she should have put up more of a fight as she waves her hand in front of her face when more smoke pours from the little fire pit when the water hits it. She coughs a little and debates stamping out the rest of the embers, but Nix hasn’t made a move to leave and she actually sort of likes the company.

At least it keeps her from getting all philosophical and morose.

Silence filters between them for a few seconds while they watch the smoke die and it takes effort for Trixie to look back over at him, “hey.”

He blinks, as if some spell’s been broken and directs his attention back at her, “what’s that?”

She bites her lip and says the first thing that pops into her head, “is Nix your real name?”

He barks out a laugh that leads Trixie to believe that whatever he’d been expecting, that isn’t it. “Yeah, yeah. It’s an old family name on my mother’s side, but I think she named me Nix to spite my father.” He looks amused and sad and Trixie feels terrible. “Apparently she bribed the nurses in the maternity ward to fill out my birth certificate before my father had the chance to name me something halfway decent.”

“I’m sorry,” she doesn’t know what else to say.

He smiles in a way that screams that something’s eating at him. “Don’t be. They’d be divorced if it weren’t for the clauses in their marriage-contract.” His smile falters a bit and then he shrugs, “sometimes, I’m surprised they haven’t killed each other, much less that they had me.”

This makes Trixie stare, because her father loved her mother, and still loves her mother so much that it hurts them both some days and Trixie can’t imagine having two parents, much less two parents that hate each other. She heaves a sigh and tries for nonchalance, “probably so they could give you that god-awful name and turn you loose on the world.”

He smiles again, still feral, like always, but more genuine than the last one. “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”

Trixie nods, even though she thinks it fits him, and silence falls a second time.

“What did you think my real name was?”

She thinks for a moment, trying to recall a conversation she had when she was half asleep and dizzy from sleep-aides. “I don’t know. Nathan, maybe… or Joseph?” She lifts her shoulders, “Gabriel?”

“God, anything but Gabriel, please,” and then he laughs a lot harder than Trixie expects him to, given that she’s just all but told him she thinks his name is stupid. She even laughs a little bit herself, because Nix doesn’t look anything like a Gabriel and she’s not sure why she ever thought he did in the first place.

The dog presses its wet and sticky face into her hand, looking for more marshmallows, no doubt. She crouches to pet its face, jumping when it ducks its head so she can’t scratch behind it’s ears.

“You’ve got to go under his head,” Nix offers, watching her try to pet his dog like she’s something precious, “he can’t see your hand if you go over, because of his wrinkles.”

Trixie does as she’s told and ends up nearly getting bowled over by the dog as he pushes closer to her. “What’s his name, then?”

“Socrates,” Nix answers, watching the dog look back at the sound of his name, before going back to trying to climb into Trixie’s lap.

She laughs, “it looks like terrible naming practices run in the family.”

“Nah,” he answers, still content to watch her pet his dog, “Socrates is a real philosopher, aren’t you, boy?”

Trixie gives in and sits on the ground, letting Socrates climb into her lap so she can lavish more attention on him, “what’s he philosophise about?”

Nix is quiet for a long moment, and Trixie nearly thinks she might have bested him in a battle of wits she didn’t know they were having. Then he smiles and says, “who’s a good boy?”

She laughs, even though it’s a stupid joke, and Nix smiles again.

Eventually, they quiet down and the smoke has died, there are no more embers glowing on the ground and it looks like they’re going to go their separate ways.

“I’ve got a fire pit in my back yard, if you want to make s’mores again,” Nix says, taking Trixie by surprise. She looks over Socrates’ head at him and he points toward the woods that surround the field, “you know where Longwood Drive turns into a dirt road? If you follow it half a mile down and take a left at the first fork, you’ll eventually get to my place. You don’t have to ask permission or anything, just knock on the door in case someone’s home, so you don’t scare the shit out of Mossy or something. Socrates knows you now, so he won’t be a problem.”

Trixie smiles up at him and takes his hand when he offers it down to her, shooing Socrates off her lap so she can stand.

“I might just have to take you up on that offer.”

He chuckles, “I knew you would.”

#the blue mariner #bee au #quicksilver writes things occasionally

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