#smeared over a wooden tabletop

[gimmethatagustd]

falling into you (5) | kth + myg

Sometimes Taehyung thinks he loves his roommate so much it makes him sick.

↳ pairing: superhero!taehyung x superhero!yoongi

↳ rating/genre: BTS | 18+ | college au | fantasy | roommates to lovers | fluff | light angst | light smut

↳ wc/date: 3.9k | September 2023

↳ warnings: every chapter is just PINING; the hanahaki is in full force !

↳ notes: when i say "light angst" i really mean full-blown angst tbh

↳ masterlist / taglist

↳ what was jai listening to? the series playlist

Taehyung looks down at the yellow flower petals scattered across his wooden tabletop. They’re damp with phlegm and speckled with dirt that alarms Taehyung, though not as much as the petals' existence. Black-eyed Susans are annual flowers native to North America that appear during the late summer and early autumn. They’re one of Taehyung’s favorite flowers. He enjoys how simple they are. Daisy-like in appearance, Black-eyed Susans typically have upright green stems with thin, pointy yellow petals circling a black or brown center. However, Taehyung appreciates the variations they can come in. They grow well in the greenhouse’s warm environment, and Taehyung has a small pot on one of the shelving units near the back of the greenhouse.

Although Taehyung doesn’t dabble in flower symbolism like some plant lovers do (mostly because he can speak to plants and get to know their personalities rather than rely on almanacs to tell him made-up theories), he will admit that he likes the symbolism of Black-eyed Susans. Humans have attributed the flowers to feelings of motivation, resilience, and encouragement. They’re optimistic flowers by nature, so Taehyung is inclined to believe in the symbolism.

The appearance of Black-eyed Susans on this rainy Sunday afternoon isn’t a good omen, however.

Rain patters against the greenhouse, making the glass roof and walls fog from the difference in temperatures between the inside of the greenhouse and the gloomy weather outside. It may come as a surprise to some, but Taehyung loves the rain. Not only is the sound of rain hitting the roof comforting, but it’s the driving force of all nature. Without rain, life wouldn’t exist. Therefore, he is thankful for its calming and life-giving qualities.

Today, however, the rain depresses Taehyung. Perhaps because he’s dying. Maybe. Probably.

Looking down at his phone, Taehyung lets out a small sound of frustration. Jungkook is a supergenius; why is he giving Taehyung information about a made-up disease? Jungkook needs to stop reading so much BL manhwa. Taehyung is experiencing a genuine medical emergency!

The sound of the heavy wooden backdoor creaking open startles Taehyung into action. Seokjin is weaving through the aisles of floor-level flowerbeds, large pots, and shelving units. In a panic, Taehyung starts scooping the damp petals into the pockets of his mud-smeared apron. He attempts to hide whatever is left within the clumps of dirt on the workbench.

“Taehyung-ah,” Seokjin greets him with a smile. “Why is it that you’re always so stressed these days?”

“I’m not stressed,��� Taehyung lies through his teeth, knowing that the pheromones he’s giving off will betray his true feelings to Seokjin and the greenhouse plants. It’s so unfair that he has no control over the aura he puts off.

With a playful roll of his eyes, Seokjin hauls a basket of strawberries onto the workbench beside the pot of orange and white lilies Taehyung has been prepping. He thought the apartment would look nice with fresh flowers, which is the humane way of having a bouquet without killing the plants. Taehyung doesn’t understand the point of a bouquet. Why wouldn’t someone want to plant the flowers and care for them long-term?

“So,” Seokjin tries again. “Are you still not feeling well?”

Taehyung watches him use the sink at the end of the workbench to wash the dirty strawberries and put them into clean jars. “I feel fine.”

Seokjin cocks his eyebrow when Taehyung quickly buries his face into the crook of his elbow and coughs rather violently. “Fine?”

“Mhm,” Taehyung mumbles weakly and silently prays that there won’t be petals left behind when he lifts his head.

Of course, the universe is out to get him.

He quickly turns his body away from Seokjin to brush off the sleeve of his sweater. When the petals fall to the ground, Taehyung kicks them under the table. Seokjin gives him a small smile once Taehyung turns back around.

“Would you like to talk about why you’re coughing so much? Or do I need to let you figure it out on your own?” he asks quietly, dark eyes roaming Taehyung’s confused expression.

“It’s just a cold. I’ll go to the infirmary on Monday,” Taehyung promises as he brushes dirt off the pot. If Seokjin is implying that he knows why Taehyung is coughing, he’s unfortunately confused. There’s no way for Seokjin to know the truth. Jungkook doesn’t even know. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hyung. I need to go before the rain gets worse.”

Taehyung doesn’t wait for Seokjin’s reply. He quickly bows his head a few times, a slight bob that flops his wavy golden bangs on his forehead, and then dashes out of the greenhouse with his plant cradled in his arms.

The rain is unforgiving as he hurries to his apartment, plastering his hair to his face and making his clothes hang heavily on his lanky limbs by the time he enters the apartment lobby. He did his best to protect the lilies by shielding them with his body, even if that meant the uncomfortable bend in his back caused him to cough up more flower petals at least three times before he finally made it home.

Taehyung doesn’t consider himself an angry person. If anything, he tries to maintain a relatively neutral emotional state. Today, though… Today, he’s ready to chuck his phone at his bedroom wall because Jungkook is being the exact opposite of helpful right now. At least Yoongi isn’t home to hear Taehyung hacking up flower petals and phlegm and screaming into his pillow because not only is he potentially dying, but now his room is a disaster from how disgusting this supposed disease is, and he has an essay due at midnight!

It’s going to take forever to vacuum up all these nasty petals. Taehyung is pretty sure the last cough had a little blood in it, but he forces himself not to think about that. He’s so bent out of shape that even Jisoo the Jade Plant and Bobby the Boatlily are silent as Taehyung paces the room.

What is he going to do? In all seriousness, this truly is an emergency. If Taehyung had thought he was broken before, he certainly is now. Perhaps he should have asked Seokjin to explain himself; he’s the only person Taehyung knows who would understand. In all of Taehyung’s extensive research of people with powers like his – or at least something similar – he has never encountered a situation like this.

The shooting sensation that comes right before Taehyung accidentally blows something up slices down his spine. Doubling over from the sharp pain, Taehyung squeezes his eyes shut and grasps at his chest, willing the energy coursing through his nervous system to subside.

Sweat beads along his hairline and dampens his bangs as he focuses on the tightness in his chest. It’s disgusting, the sensation of something twisting inside him, like vines squeezing his lungs.

But it works.

Taehyung collapses onto the floor and immediately coughs up more flower petals. The force of the coughs makes his back arch like a cat. It’s painful now, but he gets the result he wanted. None of his plants explode.

His hands are shaking too much to send another text to Jungkook, so Taehyung calls him instead. He sits on the edge of his bed, gently rocking back and forth to calm himself as the phone rings - lasting only three chimes before Jungkook picks up because Taehyung is sure he’s been waiting. Once Jungkook answers, Taehyung puts him on speaker and sets the phone next to him on part of the bed not covered in flower petals.

“Why aren’t you using your powers?” Jungkook immediately dives into the interrogation that Taehyung was anticipating. It’s still annoying, even if Taehyung knew it was coming.

With a huff, Taehyung presses his palms against his eyes and tries not to cry.

“They’re getting out of control, okay? For months, I haven’t been able to control them! So now I’m just not going to use them, and everything is fine!” Deep down, the rational part of Taehyung knows his reasoning doesn’t make sense, but that part of him is overruled by the part that’s stressed out.

Jungkook’s voice is softer when he asks, “Why can’t you control them, hyung?”

Dropping his hands into his lap, Taehyung stares at the wall across from him where his desk sits. There’s a little picture frame on the corner of his desk. The frame is shaped like a sunflower, with a circular photo in the middle, surrounded by big yellow petals. The photo is of Taehyung and Yoongi on the day that they met. It was at a Pride event that Hoseok’s LGBTQ+ student organization hosted. Taehyung and Yoongi are beaming at the camera with their fingers raised in peace signs pressed against their cheeks. Yoongi is wearing a giant, fuzzy rainbow boa across his shoulders, and Taehyung is in an embarrassing, too-small ladybug dress Jungkook had forced him to wear.

“Taehyung, right? You look cute,” Yoongi laughed as he leaned into Taehyung’s side, off-centered from being a bit drunk. “We should take a picture.”

With a sigh and fresh tears trickling down his cheeks, Taehyung looks down at the phone as if he can see Jungkook sitting there patiently waiting for him to crack finally.

“It’s Yoongi hyung,” Taehyung confesses. “Every time I’m around him, or even if I think about him, I make my plants explode. It hurts them, Jungkook.”

“And it hurts you, too,” Jungkook points out. It makes Taehyung’s heart ache.

“I don’t understand…”

The two men are momentarily silent, letting Taehyung’s situation sink in. Taehyung hears Jungkook sigh through the phone and then some rustling.

“Do you love him?”

The question makes the creepy crawlies in Taehyung’s chest wiggle. He grits his teeth when he responds, “Yeah. But… please don’t tell him. He won’t want to be my friend anymore.”

“What?!” Jungkook’s voice screeches through the phone. The loudness startles Taehyung, and he nearly knocks his phone onto the floor. “Hyung, are you kidding me? Yoongi hyung adores you, what the fuck?”

“Stop yelling at me. I don’t feel good,” Taehyung whines.

“Right. Sorry.” Jungkook pauses. “This is literally just like Hanahaki Disease.”

“Can you quit it with that!” The audacity.

“I’m so serious.” Taehyung can imagine Jungkook rolling his eyes at him. “You’re getting so emotional about liking Yoongi that you’re keeping your powers inside of you. You aren’t letting your feelings out, and your powers don’t have anywhere to go. You literally made flowers grow inside of you, hyung, because you won’t just let yourself be free to express yourself.”

The realization that by suppressing his powers, Taehyung is making his body malfunction is so blatantly obvious when Jungkook explains it that Taehyung feels stupid. He presses his hand to his chest and tries to channel his energy into feeling beyond the tightness– to what’s inside.

Flowers. Beautiful flowers sing to Taehyung, a song so full of sorrow that it makes him crack even more.

“I trapped them,” Taehyung mutters, his voice quiet and far off.

“Yes, you did.”

“Well…” Taehyung messes with the hem of his shirt, realizing a few petals are sticking to it. He really shouldn't be sitting on his bed right now; his clothes are still wet. In this current mindset, though, Taehyung isn't sure if he can care about much else aside from the situation at hand. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Jungkook gives Taehyung the answer he doesn’t want: “Tell him.”

Taehyung can’t do this. He can’t. Jungkook has too much faith in him. It’s not even pessimism making Taehyung doubt himself; he’s coming to this conclusion based on pure evidence.

Exhibit A: Yoongi is home, and Taehyung is hiding in his bedroom.

Exhibit B: Yoongi knocked on Taehyung’s door, knowing Taehyung was home because Hoseok heard Taehyung stressing out inside his head when he walked Yoongi to the apartment, and Taehyung pretended he was asleep.

Exhibit C: Yoongi texted Taehyung, asking if he was okay, and Taehyung turned off his phone.

The problem with roommates is that they live with you. The problem with life is that it doesn’t stop even when you want to hide away in your corner of the world and pray for it to slow down.

For nearly twenty minutes, Taehyung tries to hold in a cough. He knows Yoongi is sitting in the living room because he can hear the record player going. It’s one of Yoongi’s favorite albums: All Eyez on Me. Taehyung isn’t sure what that means for the mood Yoongi is in right now, but he can’t think about it too much because he focuses on keeping himself under control. When the cough finally bursts through Taehyung’s tight-lipped grimace, he hopes Yoongi can’t hear it over 2Pac’s "Shorty Wanna Be a Thug."

“Taehyung-ah?” Yoongi calls out, and Taehyung curses under his breath. The music stops, and the floor creaks as Yoongi nears Taehyung’s bedroom. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah, I’m fine!” Taehyung croaks.

“You don’t sound fine…” Yoongi drums his knuckles against the door. “Can I come in? I can help you.”

Of course, Yoongi can help Taehyung; he has the power of healing. Not only that, but Jungkook is convinced that if Taehyung admits his feelings, he’ll be cured. All Taehyung has to do is ask Yoongi to come in…

“Uhhh…” Heart pounding and hands shaking, Taehyung quickly brushes petals off his bed and tries to toss as many as possible into an empty flower pot sitting on the floor by his desk. It’s impossible to hide them all; there are too many.

“Tae?” The door creaks, and Taehyung imagines Yoongi is leaning his shoulder against it as he waits.

“Um, uh,” Taehyung takes a deep breath. “You can come in.”

The moment Yoongi enters Taehyung’s bedroom, his face falls. The dusting of pink on his cheeks drains, making his face look ashen and solemn. He draws his bottom lip between his teeth and nibbles on it as his eyes scan Taehyung’s bedroom, taking in the flower petals. When those troubled eyes finally land on Taehyung’s face, Yoongi’s face crumbles.

“Oh, Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi calls out softly. “What happened?”

It’s instinctual the way Taehyung falls into Yoongi’s outstretched arms. He lets Yoongi hold him close, even allowing himself to nuzzle his face into the crook of Yoongi’s neck without shame. Eucalyptus and peppermint evade his senses, automatically calming him. His tears cease to fall, and his hands no longer shake because he bunches the hem of Yoongi’s oversized t-shirt into his fists.

“I have flowers inside me,” Taehyung whispers into Yoongi’s shoulder. His body hurts from coughing, and he leans most of his weight onto Yoongi. Yoongi can handle it, though. He’s strong, as always, keeping Taehyung upright. His large hands caress Taehyung’s back, gently rubbing along his spine as Taehyung takes deep breaths.

“You’re sick?” Yoongi asks. Taehyung can’t expect him to understand, but he can’t find the energy to explain what’s happening. There’s only one thing that will make this better.

“Mhm,” Taehyung hums an affirmation. He feels warm and gooey, a chocolate chip cookie straight from the oven, broken apart by Yoongi’s strong hands. “You’re healing me.” It isn’t a question.

Yoongi’s hands on Taehyung’s back pause. “I’m sorry. I should have asked permission.”

“It feels good. I hurt all over, hyung. It hurts.”

Nodding his head, Yoongi resumes rubbing Taehyung’s back. They stay like that for a long time, content to be in each other’s arms while Yoongi patiently waits for Taehyung to explain the situation further.

“Hyung…” Taehyung slowly pulls back, far enough to look at Yoongi’s face. There’s that adoration again, a look so gentle and kind that Taehyung feels the tightness in his chest break apart. The longer Yoongi holds him, the easier it becomes to breathe. “I…”

Yoongi nods his head in encouragement.

“I think – no, no, I know I love you,” Taehyung chokes out.

It’s a shame he doesn’t know what Yoongi’s reaction is. The moment the confession leaves his lips, Taehyung squeezes his eyes shut as his whole body shudders. He bends over and coughs what he somehow knows is the remaining bout of petals deep inside his lungs. They’re frail and lackluster in color.

Falling to his knees, Taehyung gasps for air as the strange feeling in his chest slowly disappears, like vines receding into the dirt. His eyes fly open when strong arms come around his waist and hoist him up. When Yoongi settles him into his lap, Taehyung turns toward his body to rest his head on Yoongi’s shoulder.

“That was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” Yoongi muses. When Taehyung attempts a weak laugh, Yoongi pulls him tighter against his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me you felt this way?”

“You said dating friends is bad,” Taehyung reminds him. He stares down at his lap and wishes he wasn’t so upset that he can’t appreciate that he’s sitting in Yoongi’s lap.

“When did I say that?” Yoongi leans back slightly to look Taehyung in the eyes.

“That one time we played Hobi hyung’s questions game.”

Yoongi huffs at that, but Taehyung doesn’t know what it means. “That was ages ago, Taehyung. Besides… I, um…” Yoongi clears his throat. Taehyung realizes the color has returned to his cheeks. “It was my way of telling Hobah not to tease me.”

Taehyung furrows his eyebrows. “Tease you about what?”

Yoongi’s eyes drop to Taehyung’s lips. He suddenly feels self-conscious about having his crush look at him so closely, even though Yoongi has seen every side of Taehyung – the good, the bad, and the ugly. Especially the ugly. It comes with the territory of living with someone, Taehyung supposes. It’s hard to hide the undesirable parts of yourself from your roommate.

“I didn’t want him to tease me about how much I like you,” Yoongi whispers. “Love you, actually. I love you, too.”

“Oh…” Taehyung blinks and is very aware of how close his face is to Yoongi’s. It doesn’t help that Yoongi’s eyes keep flitting between locking with Taehyung’s and looking at his lips. “Oh.”

“Ahh, yeah,” Yoongi admits sheepishly. He ruffles the back of his hair and gives Taehyung a small smile. “I’ve been trying to tell you for a while but kept getting too nervous. I, mean, I’m still kind of nerv–”

Taehyung should ask to kiss Yoongi, but he doesn’t. He dives in before he can talk himself out of it. He’s glad he does, of course. Kissing Yoongi frees the last bit of discomfort that had seeped into Taehyung’s bones. The comfort of his pillowy lips on Taehyung’s calms the anxious knot inside his chest. His stress unfurls as Yoongi begins kissing him back, his hands sliding up Taehyung’s back to hold him close as he applies more pressure to their kiss.

Their lips move together in a slow dance like autumn leaves swirling around each other when kicked up in the wind. When they finally pull away, the tip of Taehyung’s tongue brushes against Yoongi’s bottom lip, and Taehyung thinks he tastes the way lilacs smell.

“I think I’m better now,” Taehyung blurts. The laugh that erupts from Yoongi’s chest endears Taehyung and makes him want to hide under his blankets in embarrassment for saying something stupid.

“Good,” Yoongi says with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Though I’m very disappointed in you.” Taehyung hides in the crook of Yoongi’s neck because he knows what’s coming next. “I explicitly asked you to tell me when something’s wrong, and you lied to me.”

“I did not lie!” Taehyung groans, but he smiles against Yoongi’s skin. “Maybe I lied a little.”

“You can’t only lie a little. You either did or you didn’t. And you did,” Yoongi teases, and Taehyung decides that there’s nothing else he wants more in life than to be on the receiving end of Yoongi’s teasing.

The pair remain sitting on the floor for the rest of the night as Yoongi asks Taehyung to finally share his struggles with him. Now that they know this can happen to Taehyung, Yoongi wants to make sure Taehyung knows what to do when he feels like he might be repressing his powers again. It’s sweet how concerned Yoongi is for Taehyung’s well-being. He always has been, but it feels different now that Taehyung knows Yoongi loves him, too.

It’s also sweet to receive little kisses in between stories. Taehyung knew being kissed by Yoongi would be life-changing if it ever happened to him. And not just kisses on the lips, but kisses on his eyelids, cheeks, and forehead – god, the forehead kisses! They’re the best, Taehyung decides. They make him feel so, so soft.

What a beautiful thing it is to be loved by Yoongi.

Taehyung feels it in his chest, this flourishing feeling. It’s nothing like the tightness from before. This time, love seeps into his bones rather than stress and fear. This sensation brings him tranquility and light. So much so that Taehyung eventually drifts off to sleep, still in Yoongi’s embrace.

“Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi attempts to rouse Taehyung. “Let's get you to bed, okay?”

With his eyes still closed, Taehyung shakes his head. Physical and emotional exhaustion has caught up with him, but he can’t extricate himself from Yoongi. It sounds like the worst idea in the history of the world.

“I change my mind. I’m not better yet,” Taehyung slurs with drowsiness. Taehyung’s head bobs up and down with the force of Yoongi’s laughter.

“Want me to lie with you?” Yoongi asks. He runs his fingers through Taehyung’s bangs, gently pushing them away from his face as Taehyung lifts his head. It feels good, but everything feels good with Yoongi.

“Okay,” he concedes with eyes still closed. He lets Yoongi maneuver him off his lap and forces himself to stand up because superstrength isn’t one of Yoongi’s powers, and Taehyung is much bigger than him.

He and Yoongi have never cuddled but fall naturally into place once their backs hit the mattress. Much to Taehyung’s surprise, Yoongi rests his head on Taehyung’s chest and wraps his arm around his waist. It’s silly, but the position makes Taehyung feel special, like he’s somehow in charge of ensuring Yoongi has a good cuddling experience. He worries his chest is too bony and his body too thin to feel comfortable.

Yoongi must pick up on Taehyung’s struggle from his stiff body language because he lets out a quiet huff of a laugh and says, “Relax, Tae. I’m happy.”

“I’m happy, too,” Taehyung whispers.

Throughout the apartment, Taehyung’s plants coo.

series masterlist

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#taehyung x yoongi #bts fanfic #yoongi fanfic #yoongi angst #yoongi smut #yoongi fluff #bts angst #bts fluff #bts smut #taehyung fanfic #taehyung angst #jai writes #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #fiy #gimmethatagustd #taegi fanfic

[undercity-merc]

"You know Vi, it's not that I don't trust your abilities, but what made you think you knew how to run a bar?" She asked with a tiny smirk, leaving no doubt that it was more of a jest than an actual judgment of her skills, if anyone could surprise people it was her, and she was much smarter than they let everyone believe. "And who do I have to kill to get a scotch on the rocks?"

"Careful with that sharp tongue of yours, you never know who might poison your drink." Vi's response jab came with a side of dry humor, a smirk pulling on her scarred upper lip. Her slate blue eyes flickered up to regard the investigator for a pause, before they moved back to the glass in her calloused hand. She set it against the polished wooden tabletop and teetered it on the edge, before letting it rock down and land on the base. She reaches under the counter without pulling her smarmy gaze from the woman, producing a bottle from the under shelf. Her thick thumb pops the cork free, and she sets it against the bar top. Her free hand grasps the cup, bringing it out of sight, and the sound of glass clinking against ice clatters briefly before she sets it back on the counter, now brimming with small round ice chunks. The whiskey is then poured into the glass smoothly, settling between the ice chunks filling the glass. Careful fingers snag a lemon and kick it against a perforated blade, and the fruit it brought over the glass, squeezed in strong fingers until the bitter liquid comes dripping out. It's discarded carelessly and she snags the flayed skin of the lemon, drizzling it over the glass, and smears her thumb against the rim. She slides it to Caitlyn in one deft push. "Bottoms up, Dick." The merc regards with a twinkle in her eye, tapping her fingers against the polished wood.

#ic

[toomuchdickfort]

.......

#love how aljena and erellise got such striking aesthetics #and the clash and compliment each other so very well #aljena is shadows crawling like smoke. insects that dont really exist crawling over anything in their path. a tub of paint. you pour in some #neon and you swirl it. not enough for it to mix in but enough to pattern. #erellise is red satin. she’s gold jewelry and lipstick and nails the color of blood. roses growing from places they don’t belong. #she’s a blue sky obscured by plants and thorns. she’s a dagger. untouched but placed deliberately on the table. she’s gold paint and blood #smeared over a wooden tabletop #like. the roses and bugs? hell yeah. intimidating garden. the colors? not in the slightest. #their color palettes? not so much #i lost wjere i was going with this so like. hopefully the ramble was neat #horror #just in case bc i tried to be dramatic n spooky in phrasing #character rambles #elysur #cyrn o'neal #aljena cole #erellise feros

[spellcasterlight]

@sicktember - Day 3 Prompt: Rash

@tropetember - Day 3 Prompt: Sickfic

@flashfictionfridayofficial -  #FFF 116 Deceiving Fragrance

Warnings: Mild Major Character Injury

A small gift for my beloved @thespookymoth simply because I love her ❤️

"Stop scratching!"

"It itches!"

"You're only making it worse!"

"Well, it makes me feel bet-!"

Kiba broke off to let out a pained growl kicking out his feet as if he could shake off the burning itching that had taken over his whole body, scratching his chest as he did so.

"Stop scratching!" Ino screamed again, outright slapping his hands away from his skin and holding them hostage, so he didn't injury the already inflamed skin further.

"Are you going to behave? Or do I need to put oven mitts on your hands to stop you?"

He stopped kicking and gave her a bewildered look at that bizarre sentence. "What?"

Ino shrugged. "It's what my parents did to me to stop me scratching when I got chickenpox when I was younger."

Already missing the healing cold of the cream she was smothering his arms, neck, face and chest in, Kiba grabbed the tabletop to stop himself clawing his skin off, allowing her to fill her hands with the green-tinted white cream again; he outright sighed in relief.

"Now," she put a giant dollop of cream right where his neck met his shoulder before starting to rub it over his angry red skin. "What were you doing when this started?"

"I was-" when he paused she paused mid rub of his arm. "I was picking you wildflowers, you know," Kiba kicked out his leg at the Yamanaka's amazed look. "As a present, I wanted to bring you something nice."

He rushed on to cover his embarrassment when she only smiled wider.

"And then Akamaru knocked me over cause he wanted to play and then this!"

Once again, Ino was too quick for him and slammed his hands back on the wood of the flower shop till counter when he moved to scratch his chest again.

"Just like tha-?" Ino lowered her head, letting out an annoyed sigh before rubbing her forehead smearing some of the cream through her long fringe. "Kiba, what did these flowers look like exactly?"

He had to think about it for a moment. The burning and nearly overwhelming urge to dig his nails into his skin and rip it apart made thinking slightly tricky.

"They smelt good," Kiba finally said giving the Yamanaka a small growl when she slapped his hand again when it only lifted off the wooden counter.

"That's not what I asked, what did they look like?"

"They were small, in bushes, kinda close to the ground. The petals were blue, like a light blue and there were these small spiky parts to it-"

He stopped talking when Ino looked positively horrified, throwing her hands over her mouth, not caring about putting more cream all over herself and her clothes. "Oh, you idiot!"

Well, didn't this serve him, right? He tried to do something romantic, and he got a mind-numbing skin-on-fire rash and was called an idiot for his troubles.

"Don't get me wrong, you're a thoughtful adorable idiot," she smiled at him before giving an exasperated chuckle. "But you're still an idiot."

"What you were picking sounds like a wild plant called Plumbago, which is poisonous to humans. If you even touch it, you will well," gesturing up and down his torso with a single forefinger at his blotchy patchy skin with a grimace. "You know what happens."

Kiba's jaw dropped at the realisation; even Akamaru lowered his head to the ground at his revealed stupidity.

"How the heck was I supposed to know?!" He yelled in his clan's usual defensive reaction, only making Ino smile wider. "They smelt good! I wanted to give you something nice! All flowers smell nice!"

One of her cream filled hands set itself over his cheek, and she placed a smiling kiss to the back of her hand in an indirect kiss.

"Thank you for thinking of me though! That was really sweet."

They shared a beaming joyous smile before the Inuzuka broke off to claw at his raw red skin again, making Ino yell at him more.

She went through with her threat to oven mitt his hands, Kiba pouting like a child when she bound the material firmly around his wrists with string to stop him from removing them.

#Sicktember2021 #tropetember #flashfictionfridayofficial #kibaino #kiba inuzuka #ino yamanaka #naruto fandom #fanfic #❤️❤️❤️

[perlen-gold]

Storm Night

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

Ordinarily it is not the rain that arouses Hawke. He was not awake to witness the birth of the storm, far away from the shallow piers of Kirkwall, across the heaving and hungry sea. After hours of silent hunting, dark and looming clouds have entrapped the aspiring stone buildings of men.

The rain gushes down in endless silvery streams, chasing any four-legged or upright stranglers mercilessly into desperate shelter. Violently, a myriad of furious drops besiege the quivering glass in the windows, its irate cadence ceaselessly drowning out the occasional crackling of the fireplace. For a brief moment the bed room is plunged in an uncanny flash of dazzling light. The columns of the four-poster bed flinch, ghosts briefly awaken upon the seashell white bed sheet. Above gloomy curtains shudder in trepidation as the searing white lightning strikes once, twice, thrice. The skies over Kirkwall are illuminated in wraithlike shadows full of clouded hunters and rumbling beasts, washed over by the piercing of light, and felled in forlorn battle by thunder and bolt.

In the blink of an eye, Hawke’s eye, amber-colored and wide awake, the short-tempered light disperses into the night.

The smell of fresh, hard rain mixed with the herb burn of the dance in the fireside that shelters the bedroom under-fire from the feud outside is nearly palpable. Once more the keen blade of light strikes and transforms the hunters into warriors and the warriors into tombs for the fallen and demised, cleaving through the stormy night.

That which usually rudely awakes Hawke from sleep is neither hunter nor tomb; a kick, unexpected and painful in the lulling reverie of slumber; a sudden stroke hitting some uncovered part of his body that leaves his knee, his thigh, his shoulder, his ribs a bruised mark as purple as ripe plums; an entangling wrench yanking imprisoning feather and fabric away; and sounds, sounds, sounds, muffled, leashed, involuntary, sounds seared in Hawke’s mind.

This night is different, though.

When he wakes up, thunder forces his eyelids fly open. He lies still and he knows something is wrong.

He looks around, searches. That which wakes him this night is the slashing of the relentless rain and the cold spot on the soft mattress beside Hawke.

After a short moment of blessed silence as the storm outside gathers its strength for the next oncoming assault, Hawke sits up and swings his feet to the dry carpeted floor. It is this bare patch on the bed beside him, bereft of any body’s warmth, that has imprinted itself upon his dormant consciousness.

On bare feet he walks out of the room, along the ghostly dark corridor.  Beyond the stalwart stone walls of the Amell estate dark and light continue to lash out at each other as sundered lovers. Listening to the weeping skies Hawke remembers Carver’s wide-stricken eyes and how he swallowed his own boyhood tears for his brother’s and sister’s sake during a similar night. So big a house sunken in a darkness so impenetrable, it is impossible for Hawke to judge whether he has been roused in the middle of the night or at the cusp of dawn and day.

Wrapped in the clattering sound of the endless rain he passes the stairs, two closed doors, the kitchen till a flicker of faintly orange light piques his interest hidden amidst shelves of books.

In bad nights, Hawke will resolutely grip Fenris shoulders in order to shake him awake from his violent thrashing. In good nights, observing his twitching jaw muscles, Hawke wraps his arms around Fenris’waist, cradling him, bringing him close to his chest so he can breath softly into his ear, easing him out of his sleep just to the verge of awakening.

On those nights that are worst, Hawke will wake to a cold bed and find Fenris swigging down abundant-flavored wine from dark bottles. During these nights, Hawke joins him. They drink, they talk about other things while Hawke laughs and smiles and mounts guard over the distant look in Fenris’ wakeful eyes. Then, occasionally, out of the blue, Fenris might blurt out some mutinous memento, granted by his former life under the unyielding Tevinter sun, that leaves Hawke unsmiling and Fenris with bitterness or – worse still – with a callous shrug.

“And here I thought you hated reading.”

In this particular night Hawke finds Fenris hunched over a book in the lone flame of a single candle. He could illume the lamps and torches in the library without so much as a flicker of his fingers but he refrains from doing so. Instead, he pulls up a plain wooden chair and sits opposite Fenris, elbow on the abraded tabletop, one side of his scratchy face in his hand.

“Why?” Fenris retorts brusquely.

Hawke cannot help but smile in remembrance.

“Because last time I tried to teach you, you ended up flinging my poor book aside with the result that it was crouching in a corner quivering from spine to edge. I have not seen it since. It is probably in hiding by now.”

Fenris’ even brow patterns into struggling concentration.

“It is easy enough for you to taunt. I expected you were going to teach me reading but the sole thing you do is unnerve me with your constant correcting and scoffing.”

“And here I thought you liked my dallying.”

On other nights Fenris might look at him, his eyes alight with that dark spring green glare that there dwells perpetually, till a sudden smile flickers across his curling lips. Tonight, he does not give in to his bait, though. There is an edge in Fenris’ voice that is not often prevalent, not when they are quite alone like this. Hawke strains towards it without Fenris’ notice.

The drum of tempest-tossed rain falls upon their ears. Hawke feels his smile grow softer.  

“Maybe you are just a dreadful student.”

“Maybe you are just a dreadful teacher, Hawke.”

A chuckle rises from Hawke’s chest, light and amused.

“I probably am.”

He can see Fenris’ skin is still damp on the undersides of his arms and the nape of his neck.

The deluging torrent is not as loud here but its unyielding tremor splashing the rooftop unforgettable.

Fenris leans back, his elbows raised, his hands abruptly restless on his thighs. With a sweep of the flickering candle flame all his riposting ire seems gone all of a sudden.

“I was a fool to believe I could learn a skill like this.”

Fenris does not raise his gaze when Hawke stands and comes round the table. He draws his chair to Fenris’ side, sitting next to him. Thunder anew rumbles in the invisible night as Hawke clasps Fenris’ right hand. He does so gingerly, with the slightest hint of tarrying deference just before their fingers touch as if to see whether Fenris’ hand will move away, ever so slightly.

After dipping it into blue-black ink he threads a gray-blue quill between Fenris’ almond-colored fingers (a griffon plume, ostensible, when it was actually taken out of a phoenix’ reluctant plumage.)

With great care, slowly, deliberately, the feather tip scratches in high curves and narrow prongs over the mottled sheet of parchment. The scraping sound seems to echo among the endless shelves of books even under the voices of the thunderstorm. Long after the scratching has stopped Fenris keeps staring at the straight arcs and meandering lines in blue-black colors. Brows lowered in reflective toil his fingertips brush over the barely dried lines, smearing them at the outer edges.

“What does it say?” requests he.

Indicatively Hawke’s index finger passes from inky character to character, pronouncing each consonant and vowel with great care. Once he has reached the final letter, the last shred of reluctance is brushed away of Fenris’ expression.  Superseded by a diffident smile that he is not yet poised to evince.

“Show me yours.” he asks, half plea, half demand.

Once more Hawke guides his hand over the torn piece of parchment, tip grazing, ink fanning out as a peacock indigo feathers.

“H,” he pronounces softly but sumptuously, “A. W …”

Again, Fenris gazes at the finished name for quite a long time before he begins writing it down slowly, painstakingly, yet perfectly, unaided. Twice he then writes his own name before switching the quill from his right to his left hand. Gradually, the letters, first bristle, become more fluid with increasing pace.

Arms folded, Hawke leans back and watches Fenris practice. First copying down the portrait of their names, secondly each letter individually, then rearranging them hesitantly and strained-eyed until new words are being born, the characters pronounced meaning suddenly becoming easier with each line. Soon there is not an inch of crammed parchment left to pen on and Hawke produces a whole new sheet from his writing desk while the storm outside howls and prowls with strenuous menace.

Quite abruptly the ink-gleaming letters, bearing a childlike quality, loose their fierce focus. The subsequent line swerves out of line, then steadies, but the next does, too, and the one after that. Then the trembling begins.

At first it is only his hand, though Fenris keeps writing, writing their names, teeth gritted.

Mere seconds later the shaking has befallen his fingers, his legs, his shoulders hunched into his chest. His whole frame shudders under the shivering grip, as iron as his own grip on the quill.

Hawke has stood up.

Soon Fenris’ clammy hand cannot clutch the quill anymore. It falls, twisting itself out of his quavering grasp, dark spots of ink spraying everyway.

Few futile attempts later he stops altogether.

Hawke is standing behind his chair when it starts. With slow movements he wraps his arms loosely around his shoulders. He does not count the minutes, muss less the seconds.

Somewhen and somewhere Hawke feels Fenris startlingly cold hand on the side of his face, fingers cradling his charcoal black beard.

Rivulets of time run by.

Then Fenris picks the quill up again.

Leaning into the gentle touch Hawke lowers his weary head and rests his chin atop the crown of Fenris’ head, char stubbles shaving ebony shocks of white hair. By experience, Hawke knows better than to waste any words on that which has just happened.

So silence remains.

As Fenris finishes his next word it gives the impression of an even more childish scrawling.

Softly Hawke reads the letters aloud, feeling the fine strands of pearly white hair rubbing between his beard. “Garrett” Then, quieter, “where did you pick that one up?”

“It was stitched onto the insides of one of your shirts you gave me.”

Hawke feels a smile capturing his lips, first small, then warm and filling.

“Fenris?”

“Yes.”

“Come”, he whispers and takes his hand into his, the one that has the scarlet scarf slung about its wrist, leading him back to the warm shelter of the room of their bedroom.

Beyond the drop-gleaming windows the undying rain has lost its edge and grown somewhat quieter, enough to transmute into a deceiving semblance of repose. Back in the wide four-poster bed  they arrange for sleep in the same fashion they adopt each evening, night after night. Hawke lies on his back in the not-so-exact middle of the soft mattress, Fenris at his side, half-spread, half-outflung across Hawke’s chest, one long sharp-ended ear bedded against Hawke’s shoulder, collarbone, heart. As twisted as they might move during sleep – entangled into the warm blankets so one of them has to yank it back from under the other’s body – warped and tousled, on their sides, backs, sprawled on their stomachs – Hawke’s nose may be pitched by Fenris adamant fingers to stop his occasional but insistent snoring, his limps loose with sleep – however slumber may let them wander apart, this is the irrevocable way they settle for sleep.

Fenris’ ear near Hawke’s heart where he can harken its steady, willful beat.

Hawke knows Fenris can hear its wordless, confessing avowals for he can hear Fenris’ equally, a little  arrhythmic heartbeat through his hand on the elf’s back, the answer creeping up the arm he has slung around him.

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

This ineptness is an inevitable part of the man beside him as is the color of his eye or skin and Fenris can no more shed it than he could change the length of his limps or stop the breathing in his lungs.

“I like this.”

“What? This?” Hawke pulls him closer in merriment.

“I like this kind of weather.”

Astonished Hawke listens to the rataplan of the rain. No lightening forks the dark martial skies outside anymore save for a distant rumbling afar.

“Bethany,” Hawke remembers, still startled, “liked storms, too.”

Suddenly, Fenris straightens up and with one swift, vigorous motion he pulls Hawke out of the sheets intentionally.

Out of the bedroom into the hall he is dragged by the elf whose strength is as unsettling as ever. Hawke, no weakling himself and impressively built, once probed the silver-bladed sword (Fenris cherished nearly as much as Varric did Bianca) for several minutes and strained to fathom how Fenris could bear running around with it all day long without having his tendons and ligaments reattached afterwards. How he commiserates and dotes on this brutality of his.

“Oh,” Hawke groans, irony and grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I am not going to like this.”

Down the shadowy stairs, through the unlit foyer, up to the storm-pondered font gate and, in an instant, gushes of rain and wind wash over their faces.  

The moment they leave the safety of the house Fenris opens his grasp on Hawke’s hand but the impulse of his powerful motion propels Hawke forward right into the battle ground of the storm. Before he can blink he is soaked to the skin.

Side by side they stand in the sheath of glassy rain, barefooted, barely closed.

Before them the skies are ashore with waves of gloomy clouds. The ever-raging warrior thunder, lightening his merciless blazing blade, is aloud with booming vengeance here and fighting the skies and the earths alike.

A stroke of electrifying light from afar paints the streets and walls of Kirkwall in sharp relieve, a miniscule, insignificant thorp cowering at the feet of blue and gray and black mountains awash by breaking, spuming , spraying waves of stormy sea.

Water streams down the sides of Hawke’s face, filling the tiny spaces between his seeping beard stubbles. Angry winds gush and billow.

Endless rivulets of rain, sapid with the aroma of the wounded skies, flow in streams along the inside of Hawke’s palms, cascade forward from his slack fingertips.  

Hawke closes his eyes.

In he breathes the taste of the thunder and the light, inhaling the raining waters.

All four of their naked, bare feet are engulfed by ankle-deep flows of water.

“Maker’s breath,” Hawke exclaims in a sudden mad fit of laughter, “how can you stand this all day long?”

Since there is no answer, lost in the grace of nature, Hawke finally opens his eyes.

Fenris’ face is only a blur in the embrace of the rains. Winds tear at the strangely pearly white hair glued to his cheeks. Innumerable drops of gleaming water are falling upon the cobbled streets from his naked arms, his pointed ears, the tip of his nose.

So fierce are the winds that their sheer physical strength all but overthrows them – even so, Fenris’ slender shape towers among them indomitable.  His elven face may be blurred by the spray of the gush and rain, his deep green emerald eyes, however, glitter with the rage of the roaring warrior and his blazing blade.

Once again the skies are cast alight and Fenris face flashed, his eyes lit as by a fire within.

Sometimes Hawke wishes he would simply start crying.

He is stepping towards Hawke.

Hawke is giving him a wet smile that he cannot hear through the chaos. His eyes are fixed with studying one single silver bead among a plethora which is running down along his curved neck and disperses wetly into his the well of his collarbone.

“We will both be stone-cold dead by the end of the night.”  

Thirst-ridden Fenris’ eyes blazing virid eyes find his, and his hard mouth, arms entwining around Hawke’s neck, finds his and is pressing against his lips tasting of rain and the aroma of his caramel-shaded skin. Hawke grasps him, savors him not heeding the chatty gossip that might burst from a prying eye behind the dark rain-stained windows around them – who would anyway?

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

In the peach-colored rays of morning light when the horizon will be skewed with skeins of tangerine, Hawke will sleepily wave away Orana’s considerate knock at the door and her regardful eyes peering from behind the bedroom door announcing that breakfast is ready, and Hawke will feel inclined, as ever, to cover Fenris’ long elven ears lest he might give him that glare that brings Hawke to consider a tremendous pay raise each time he does so. Soon, Orana will be wealthier than half of his Hightown neighbors.

For now, however, they trip and splash back inside leaving wet footmarks all over the floor and carpets. Long after drying each other with nowhere near enough towels, the window aglow with firelight reviving honey and daffodil and gold beads, they fall back to sleep, hearts pounding, skins resting, as they always do.

There might and will be many a nightmare in the gloomy nights to come.

But for now, for the remaining fragment of this one short, storm-shaken night, Fenris eases peacefully in his arms.

#fenhawke #hawris #m!fenhawke #fenris #hawke #garrett hawke #a fragment of a still incomplete fanfiction of mine #which I've been writing for aeons as I'm so slow #and I'm too overcome with nerves to upload it #so just ignore this :) #my writing

[galvus]

prompt: adroit • words: 586 • era: a realm reborn patch content • [ masterpost ] clever or skillful in using the hands or mind. “I don't trust you.”

Her quietly spoken words were punctuated by F'lhaminn clinking a freshly washed glass against another behind the bar. Rather than looking up from her lap to see whether or not her appraisal had met its mark, Bianca tugged at the cuticle of her thumb, tearing free a wretched little piece of skin that left behind a pearl of blood.

“More than that,” she continued, a brush of her opposite thumb smearing red over her skin, “I know you have something to do with all of this.” “Seems unlikely, right?” The gravel in his voice pulled her head up sharply, as if he'd taken a handful of her hair and tugged. Ilberd stared at her from where he sat across the round wooden table, his posture straight as a pin and the cobalt of his crisp uniform tidier than her own road-tattered robes. His eyes were sweetened by a flicker of candlelight. “I'm loyal to the Crystal Braves. More so than I've had any chance to be in a while.” He folded his gloved hands on the tabletop. The well-worn black leather made no sound. “I appreciate the opportunity I've been given.”

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe him as she'd believed so many before him, only to feel the pressure of a blade before long. She was tired of betrayal, but she understood the shape of it, the scent that followed in its wake, the way its shadows moved along the walls. She knew how fury could rise in men's throats like bile, burning and corroding everything in its path. She knew how loss could curl at someone's goodness, like the edges of a slip of parchment held above a flame. She knew, and she saw. Bianca saw the shadow of it clinging to the soles of Ilberd's boots. “You have every reason to be angry,” she said, the pad of her thumb still worrying at the blood on her hand. “So many of you do. That is how this begins, isn't it? On the right foot, but...” “And you've every reason to be a paranoid little thing, don't you?” Her parted lips pursed before thinning into a quieted frown. Even though there was no harsh smack of criticism in his voice, she felt the cold sweep of it in her veins. The tables turned, swirling and spinning in her direction, and the candle that lit Ilberd's eyes seemed to flare, turning darkened gold to something molten and bright. “Don't worry,” he chuckled. “I won't hold this against you. I'll just show you, with time, that you can trust me.” Ilberd smiled and stood with a quiet squeak of his chair, reaching for his emptied glass without so much as taking another glance in her direction. He thought he'd won, she realized. Anyone watching their brief exchange would have come to the same conclusion. “I hope so,” was all Bianca could manage before he turned away, and she tucked the bloodied skin of her thumb into her mouth, watching the shadow that trailed behind him as he found F'lhaminn at the bar. Their exchange was even more brief, but the miqo'te woman was left smiling and utterly charmed. Perhaps she was paranoid. Perhaps she was seeing signs that weren't there. Perhaps she was preparing for a blade that would stay sheathed, and she would emerge on the other side, looking a fool. Never before had she so badly wanted to be a fool. “Gods, for everyone's sake, I hope so.”

#ffxivwrite2021 #ilberd feare #type: ffxivwrite #oc: bianca #ch: ilberd feare #mine: writing

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, art-in-the-sunlight!

For @art-in-the-sunlight. I hope you enjoy! Happy holidays :)

*****

Home For Christmas

“Help! Thief!”

Alec and Magnus turn in a synchronized movement at the outburst from a nearby vendor’s stall, finding a seelie pointing after a small figure bolting away from the booth. With barely a glance at his husband, Alec takes off after the figure, trusting Magnus to be at his side. He hadn’t thought to activate his speed rune, hadn’t seen the need for it during a leisurely trip to the Shadow Markets to stock up on Magnus’ potion supplies, but years of training and staying in peak physical shape enables him to quickly gain ground in pursuit of the thief, Magnus’ footsteps ringing out beside his own. Downworlders leap out of their way, recognizing them, and it isn’t long before they’re right on the heels of someone either very short- or very young.

They turn down an alleyway and, as the thief makes to turn the corner, Magnus throws up a shield of blue magic. The figure hits it head on, stumbling back and landing on their butt in a thump, a loaf of bread flying out of their hands, onto the dirty alley.

The person- a kid- Alec realizes with a twist in his heart, recovers quickly, but Alec and Magnus are already in front of them by the time they get back to their feet.

Alec glances over the kid, his stomach aching at what he finds. He can’t tell if the child is a boy or a girl, dressed in baggy clothes, skin smeared with dirt, dark hair in tangles. What he can see is the fear that’s apparent in the wide blue eyes staring back at him. They can’t be older than twelve.

“Hey, it’s alright, you’re alright,” Alec breathes, dropping down into a crouch to appear less intimidating, while still blocking the kid’s path. He’s more worried about the clearly neglected child now than the seelie who’d had one loaf of bread stolen. It takes him back to finding Rafael in a similar state in Brazil and he shudders to think of either of his children- currently safe and warm at Aunt Izzy’s- in this kind of desperation ever again.

The kid wraps dirty hands around themself, looking quickly between Magnus and Alec, likely on the verge of running.

Magnus offers them a soft smile. “You’re not in trouble. Were you hungry?”

The kid nods, glancing at the bread like they might try to pick it up and make off with it again. Before they can, Magnus snaps his fingers and the bread vanishes. “It’s no good now,” the warlock explains. “But we’ll get you some food, whatever you want.”

“Magic,” the child whispers, fingers twitching with red sparks. A warlock- of course.

“That’s right, I’ve got magic like you.”

The kid stares at him until Alec gently clears his throat. “I’m Alec and this is Magnus. We didn’t mean to scare you and we’re going to make sure you get some food, alright?” When there’s no response, Alec continues, “What’s your name?”

“Abigail,” comes a whispered response, fingers still sparking with magic.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Magnus says lightly. “Are you here alone?”

The girl nods, magic vanishing as she tugs at the torn scarf hanging from her shoulders.

“How did you find the Shadow Market?” Alec asks, wondering if she’s escaped from somewhere like Iris’ or if she’d stumbled in from the mundane world.

“The magic,” Abigail answers. “It brought me here. Am I in trouble?”

“No, sweet pea, you’re not in trouble, we just want to help you. Why don’t we go get you some food and maybe a warm drink.”

Abigail’s eyes are still wide and frightened, but she nods. Alec rises to his feet. “What’s your favorite food?”

There’s a moment of pause as the three of them head back towards the stalls. They’re almost back when Abigail speaks again. “Pizza.”

“Delicious,” Magnus agrees. “What kind?”

“Um… cheese?” She sounds uncertain and Alec exchanges a look with his husband.

Magnus smiles sadly. “Why don’t you apologize to Shelly and then we’ll sit down and eat some pizza, okay?”

“Shelly?”

Magnus nods towards the stall where the seelie is watching them with arms crossed over her chest. Alec wants to step between her and Abigail, wants to block the child from the seelie’s harsh gaze. Abigail shrinks back. “Do I have to?”

“I already paid her back for the bread, she isn’t going to hurt you.”

Abigail nods, brushes back a tangle of hair from her face and squares her shoulders with a seriousness no child should know, before marching like a soldier going to war. Magnus and Alec follow her back to the booth where she looks up at the seelie. “I’m sorry.”

Shelly goes to open her mouth and Alec can feel the seething response before it comes so he hurries to glare, letting a hand hover protectively over the child’s shoulder. “You’ve been compensated and we’ll make sure she doesn’t take anything else.”

The seelie huffs. “Fine, go away, you’re scaring my customers.”

Alec resists the urge to roll his eyes as they turn and follow Magnus down the road to where it spills into a park-like space, complete with several wooden picnic tables. Magnus finds an empty one and slides onto the bench on one side. Alec sits beside him, letting Abigail take the bench on the other side, watching the way her magic begins to cut grooves in the surface of the wooden tabletop.

Magnus waves a hand and a cheese pizza on a paper plate appears in front of the girl. A steaming mug appears next to it a moment later. “Hot cocoa?”

She blinks at him. “What?”

“Hot chocolate,” Magnus clarifies, nodding to the drink.

Abigail eyes it with distrust, but slides it closer to sip from it. Her eyes go wide with something other than fear and Alec’s heart clenches in his chest. “I love it!” She takes a few more sips before turning to devour her pizza.

Alec presses his shoulder to Magnus’, keeping his voice low, “Catarina?”

“Already texted her,” Magnus assures him. Alec feels sufficiently calmer, knowing they’ll figure out what had led Abigail to this state and that they would, quite quickly, fix it. “She’ll come over as soon as she can.”

Alec nods, relieved, before refocusing on Abigail who’s shoveling down the pizza with a ferocity that would be adorable if it weren’t for the severity of the situation. “Abigail, do your parents know where you are?”

She stops eating, sets the pizza down, and rubs her hands together, eyes going to the table. She doesn’t answer.

“It’s okay, if they don’t. Or if you don’t have any,” Alec says gently. “We’re just trying to figure out how to help you.”

“I… I have a mom,” she says quietly. “She doesn’t care what I do as long as I don’t get in trouble or use my magic.”

It’s better than it could be, Alec supposes, but negligent parenting is far from ideal. “Well you can use your magic here, no one will be upset if you do.”

“Quite the opposite,” Magnus assures, snapping his fingers and adding a large helping of whipped cream to her hot chocolate. Alec gives him a look, but Magnus shrugs it off. “There are a lot of people here that can help you learn to control it.”

“Like you do?” Abigail asks as she finishes the pizza, wiping her greasy hands on her jacket.

“Exactly. Now that you’ve been fed, what do you say to getting cleaned up? If you’re okay with it, we can show you where we live and get you some clean clothes. You can meet our sons, one of them has magic like us,” Magnus tells her.

Abigail nods eagerly. “Okay!”

Alec feels a little sick, knowing that the girl’s mother had clearly never cared to warn her of strangers, but it helps them now so he forces the emotion down. “Do you want to see what a portal is like? Magnus helped invent them.”

“A portal?” There’s clear awe in her voice as she finishes the hot chocolate and sets the empty cup on the picnic table. “Yes please!”

“To the loft it is!” Magnus announces, moving his hands with exaggerated motions to swirl a portal into existence. “You’ll want to hold my sleeve or Alec’s, so you don’t get lost, alright?”

Abigail glances between them and Alec is about to suggest they walk instead, but then she nods and reaches to curl a small hand into the sleeve of Alec’s jacket, and they’re stepping through the portal.

When they get back to the loft, Magnus summons up some clean clothes for Abigail and while she showers, they discuss what to do. It makes sense to contact her mother, but neither of them is comfortable returning Abigail to the woman’s custody. This leaves them with two options - letting Abigail go with Catarina or letting her stay at the loft.

“I think it should be the boys’ decision,” Magnus says carefully. “To suddenly introduce a new child when they might not get along could be… incisive”

Alec is quick to agree, putting the comfort of their sons first, knowing Abigail will get good care with Catarina even if Alec would prefer to have her stay with them.

“Izzy’s bringing them home soon. We’ll see what they think.”

Alec nods, closing the space between them to rest his head against his husband’s shoulder, murmuring an “I love you” into the warlock’s hair. Magnus’ arms come up to wrap around him and they stay like that in the peaceful quiet of their kitchen until the pitter patter of small feet draws them apart.

Alec turns to find Abigail standing in the doorway, looking sufficiently less despairing. Her skin has been scrubbed clean, still slightly pink from warmth, and she looks adequately bundled in the cozy sweater and jeans Magnus had summoned. Her hair, however, is another matter, still in dark tangles. A brush dangles from her hand. “I couldn’t clean my hair. I tried with magic too, but it just made it worse.” Abigail says quietly, picking at the brush. “So I tried to brush it, but it was too knotted.”

“That’s alright,” Alec says quickly. “I have a younger sister, I used to do her hair all the time, do you want me to wash yours?”

Abigail nods, holding out the brush. Alec herds her back towards the bathroom which Magnus quickly snaps to resemble a salon, allowing Abigail to sit in a comfy chair, hair falling into a basin behind her. Alec works efficiently, careful not to tug at her scalp as he rinses her hair. It’s a long process, but he’d gotten ichor out of Izzy’s hair enough times to be familiar with it. He’s surprised to see Abigail’s hair turning blonde as he cleans it, what he’d thought were dark strands had apparently just been blonde hair so dirty they’d looked brown.

It’s after he’s washed her hair and is putting it up in a braid that Isabelle shows up. Magnus goes to answer the door while Alec finishes the braid. “Rafael and Max are home now, they’re mine and Magnus’ kids and younger than you. They can be a little hyper sometimes, but no one here is going to hurt you, alright?”

Abigail nods as she stands up, fiddling with her braid, but looking measures less afraid than when they’d cornered her. Alec leads her out to the living room where Rafael and Max are sitting cross-legged on the floor, pulling things out of their backpacks. Magnus is watching over them with a fond smile. All of them turn to look when Alec and Abigail step into the room.

“Daddy!” Max trills, leaping to his feet before freezing, expression turning guilty as his eyes go to Magnus. “Sorry.”

“We talked about trying to be a bit calmer tonight,” Magnus informs him quickly. Alec nods, going to pick up his son because, after the day he’s had, he needs the reminder that his own children are okay.

“Max, Rafe, this is Abigail.”

Both boys peek around Alec at the small warlock as she curls in on herself. The adults wait with bated breath.

“A sister?” Max asks, clapping his little blue hands together in excitement. He’d taken to having a brother like a fish took to water and, in the last year, had begun asking for another sibling as if one was as easily as obtained as adopting a puppy. Alec supposes that, for them, that did often appear to be the case.

Alec suppresses  a smile at Max’s enthusiasm. “Not yet, Maxie. Is it okay with you and Rafe if she stays with us for a little while though?”

Rafe nods, still quiet, fiddling with the bottom of his shirt. Despite his quietness, he doesn’t seem opposed to the idea. Max, on the other hand, looks ecstatic. “She can stay forever,” he says with utter seriousness before walking, extra slowly, to stand in front of Abigail. “I’m Max!”

“You’re blue,” she murmurs, eyes wide.

“I’m a warlock!”

Abigail’s eyes narrow. “What’s a warlock?”

“Magic users,” Magnus quickly steps in. “Max has magic like you and I.”

Max claps and butterflies made of magic explode from his hands, fluttering around him before fading away. Alec barely resists the urge to roll his eyes at Max’s obvious showing off, but Abigail looks intrigued. “Can you show me how to do that?”

“Yeah!” Max nods excitedly. “It’s easy!”

Before Max can launch into a full magic lesson, Magnus intercedes, ruffling the young boy’s hair. “Why don’t you show her your room first?”

“Do you like swords?” Rafe asks, finally speaking up, approaching the other two children. “We have lots of play swords.”

Abigail nods. “I used to play swords with pool noodles.”

“A pool noodle?” Max’s face scrunches in confusion as he leads his older brother and their guest down the hallway to the room he and Rafe share. While Abigail attempts to explain whatever a pool noodle is, their voices drifting off down the hall, Alec turns to his husband and finds the warlock already smiling at him.

“I think they adore her,” Magnus states, stepping closer to wrap his arms around Alec’s waist. Alec returns the hug easily, pressing his face into his husband’s hair.

“They’re never going to let her leave,” Alec agrees, silently adding that he feels the same way. He’s already protective of the young girl and he’s terrified to let her back into whatever situation had led her to this.

Magnus hums in agreement. “I guess this is a good time to ask how you feel about adding another child to our household.”

Alec grins, hearing his own longing echoed in Magnus’ tone, despite the other man’s casual words. “Of course I want her to stay.”

Magnus nuzzles into Alec’s shoulder. “Good. Me too.”

When Catarina comes by, she determines that Abigail is perfectly healthy aside from being a bit undernourished. After a rough conversation, they learn that Abigail had been living with her neglectful mother- a woman who had stopped caring for Abigail less and less as she grew.

Unfortunately, because Abigail’s mother- a woman she said was named Alice- was alive, adopting her without talking to her legal guardian would technically be kidnapping and neither Alec nor Magnus wanted to explain that to Luke.

So, while Catarina watches over the kids, they take a trip upstate to a crumbling house with an overgrown yard and a broken windowpane. Alec thinks, right away, that this is not the kind of place a child could get a good upbringing.

“Maybe you should let me do the talking,” Magnus says as they approach the door.

Alec raises an eyebrow at him. “Why?

“You’re angry and the last thing we want to do is scare her.” Alec disagrees. He thinks scaring her wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. His thoughts must show on his face because Magnus shakes his head. “I understand, Alexander, I’m upset too. But this woman went through a traumatic experience and raising a warlock as a mundane can’t be easy. Most women don’t even try.”

Alec shrugs. “She failed, Magnus.”

“I know.” Magnus’ voice is pained. “But we need to have a conversation with Alice, not an argument. We can’t go in there just throwing around not just accusations.”

Alec forces himself to pause, to breathe in and out. Of course Magnus knows the pain of being neglected by mundane parents because of his parentage. He fishes out his stele and glamours his runes. “Fine, you can do the talking.”

“Thank you.”

The woman who answers the door a moment later looks to be in almost as poor a state as Abigail had been when they’d found her. Alice has bags under her eyes, her hair tied in a messy bun, clothing stained and torn. She glances between them with fear evident in her eyes and Alec is struck by how young she looks.

“Are you Alice?” Magnus asks, making her look over at him, glancing between his makeup and shiny jacket.

“Yes, who are you?”

“I’m Magnus, this is Alec. We wanted to talk to you about Abigail.”

Alice’s eyes widen, hands curling into her shirt, picking at the fabric. “Abby? Is she okay? What happened?” At least she seems to care.

“She’s fine,” Magnus assures her. “She’s with our own children and a nurse friend of mine. However, the state that we found her in was troubling.”

Alice casts her eyes down. “She gets into trouble sometimes.”

Alec bites back a harsh response, letting Magnus answer instead. “We’re worried about her and the care she’s getting. She told us you let her do as she likes as long as she doesn’t use her magic.”

“Magic? She-she’s very imaginative-”

“Not to worry, I know all about warlocks,” Magnus interrupts, letting his magic twist between his fingers. “Considering I am one.”

Alice stumbles backwards, hands flying up as if to defend herself. “Why are you here?”

“We just want to talk so we can figure out the best way to help Abigail,” Magnus says calmly, letting his magic fade.

It takes a bit more convincing, but once they get Alice to realize she’s not in any harm, she hesitantly invites them in and, sitting on opposite couches in the living room, she tells them her story. The demon that had found her when she was sixteen. The unexpected pregnancy. Being cast out by her parents. “I tried,” Alice stresses, picking at the pillow she’s holding in her lap. “I tried to give her a good home, a good life. Even with the- the claws and the skin thing. I tried.”

Alec exchanges a glance with Magnus. Warlock marks. Warlock marks that Abigail had learned to glamor despite her clear inexperience and lack of knowledge about magic.

“I couldn’t do it anymore,” Alice continues, on the verge of tears. “Every time I look at her, I remember it and the- the magic and the claws and the skin thing. I love her, I do, she’s my daughter, but it’s too hard.”

“Alright,” Magnus says, gently as possible, hand finding Alec’s, fingers threading together. “Like I said, we want to help. Abigail is welcome to stay with us as long as she likes. We don’t want her to lose you, but this clearly isn’t an environment that’s conducive to the best future for either of you.”

Alice nods, tears streaming down her face now. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” Alec finally speaks, his voice raw. Magnus gives him a warning look, but Alec’s anger has been momentarily subdued. “You clearly love her. And you can change and be good for her, but you need to put in the work.”

Alice sniffles, wiping at her face. “I want to do that.”

“Then we’ll be here to help,” Magnus assures her with a soft, sad smile.

Abigail moves in with them, officially, that day. They bring what little she owns from Alice’s house and make plans to meet with the woman weekly, with Abigail- if she agrees.

She settles into their lives so quickly it’s as if she’s always been there. The boys adore her and she seems to love them just as much and Magnus begins giving her the magic lessons he’d long since been giving Max.

Alice slowly begins to get her life together, but there’s a clear distance between her and Abigail. The younger girl walks on eggshells around her mother and Alice seems reluctant to so much as touch her daughter.

It’s several months before Alice tells them, crying, that she can’t take care of Abigail the way they have been; she can’t foster the growth that’s become apparent as she lived with them.

It’s Christmas Day when they sign the adoption papers, Alice takes the photo and spends the day with them and Alec thinks they’ve gained two new family members, in an odd way.

#art-in-the-sunlight #malecsanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

[obviously-best-potions-master]

Inside the Walls of Potions Classroom

Chapter 57

Word count: 1629

Warnings: 💕 smut, oral sex, desk sex, 18+

“You ignored me the whole class again!” you reproached the man displeased, crossing your arms on your chest, pretending a deep offence.

Snape laughed cheerfully, grabbing you into his hold.

“Need my attention, girl, don’t you?” his lips connected to yours in a slow sensual kiss.

You tried to resist at first, but surrendered rather quick, as his caress grew more demanding. Your insides fluttered at his confident touch, and you loosened at once, your hands gliding up his neck and squeezing him tightly. You missed Severus so much during this endless day, and wanted him all to yourself.

“I suppose now I need more than just your attention,” you hissed into his face, feeling your cunt already swelling in arousal.

He grasped your hips and lifted you up in his arms, snarling into your neck. Firmly clutching at his shoulders, you shrieked playfully and wrapped your legs around his torso. Snape carried you to his workplace, sat you on his desk and passionately crashed against your lips, holding you tightly with one hand, while the other carefully snuck under your skirts and, stroking your thigh, smoothly slid up to your entrance. He gently ran his fingers between your folds and grinned at how wet you already were for him. Feeling him touch you, where you needed it the most, you breathed ardently into his face, inflaming him with desire. His finger made a few strokes along your soaked crotch before slowly sinking inside. Face buried in his neck, you squeezed his shoulders, nails digging into his robes, and moaned quietly, expecting much more to come. Snape added another finger and made slow movements in and out of you.

“Ugh, Severus...” your hot breath burned his skin.

“Yes, love?” he grinned innocently, teasing you and pretending to have no idea, what you wanted from him.

“Take me, Sev...” you whispered in his ear, dying with desire. “Please...”

He continued making these simple movements, which made you forget about everything.

“Huh,” you moaned, biting his earlobe. You also knew, how to make him weak.

Snape growled deep in his throat, fervently and eagerly kissing your neck.

His low bestial roar drove you crazy.

“I beg you, Sev...” you couldn’t take it anymore.

He removed his hand from under your robes and knelt down, spreading your thighs a little wider. He slowly rubbed your throbbing bud with his thumb and pushed it inside your core. He added another thumb, opening your folds, admiring your soaked slit glisten with juices. He savored this moment, drowning his fingers into your warmth and pulling them out again, smearing your moisture over your swollen clit. His pants were getting too tight for his growing erection. Craving to feel you stretch around him, his hard cock pulsated painfully, intoxicating his mind with desire.

You leaned back on his table, whimpering in anticipation, once his tongue came in contact with a sensitive spot of yours. Instinctively, your thighs tended to clamp shut, but his firm hands held them apart possessively, making you quiver and beg for release. He delicately sucked and licked on your clit, twirling his tongue around your bud, bringing you over the edge. You could feel nothing but the heat, knotted in your nub and nagging sweetly deep inside, ready to wash over you.

“Keep going! Please, keep going! Let me cum!” you pleaded desperately.

Your cries and moans made him feel like his pants would burst at the seam. Groaning wildly, he sank a finger into your tight core, moving it intensely and pressing the spot, which he knew, gave the best reaction. Your orgasm hit you in a wink, rushing through your body in powerful pleasurable waves.

“Oh, Severus,” you whined, trembling against him.

He felt your walls pulsate around his finger, and slowed down a bit, letting you enjoy your high, just to continue fingering you again with a fierce force. Your juices drained down his palm, as he worked hard on you.

Crying out his name, you pressed your hand against his forehead, begging for mercy. You were too sensitive to endure it for long and another wave washed over you, spreading heat throughout your entire being.

“Oh, so good…” you gasped for air.

Ready to bring you this kind of pleasure forever, Snape closed his eyes to absorb the moment.

“Yes, that’s what I want to hear…” he murmured as his lips covered your folds, tasting your sweetness, delicately lapping it up till the last drop.

He raised up and wrapped you into his hold, gliding his hands along the curves of your body. Greedily grabbing your buttocks, he squeezed them firmly and dragged you off the table, abruptly turning your back to himself. Utterly drunk with lust, hectically, he managed to unbutton his trousers, allowing his considerable erection bounce free, and bent you over his desk, lifting up your skirts and pressing the head of his fully hardened cock to your entrance.

“Just take me, I beg you!” you sobbed, dying to feel him inside.

He slowly ran the length of his erection between your folds to wet himself and thrusted into you, filling you up to the hilt.

A loud moan escaped your lips, as you leaned on the tabletop, almost blacking out from pleasure.

Your fluttering walls clenched around him, taking last bits of sanity from the man, who didn’t have power to restrain himself any longer. He gripped you by the hips, fixing you in his strong hands, firm enough to leave slight bruises. Snape rapidly picked up his pace, without even noticing how hard he had been pounding into you.

“Yes, Severus, yes...” you pepped him up, as he shoved you onto the desk, forcing you lay on your stomach under his pressure. Piles of papers swept off the wooden surface and fell down, scattered all over the floor.

In the heat of passion, craving to feel your body, Snape crushed on you, holding on the edges of the table, and continued at the same pace. With one hand, he grabbed you from below and squeezed your soft, perfectly shaped breasts, regretting they were hidden under a layer of clothes. Taking time to enjoy your forms, he slid his palm up to your neck, pressing you to himself, choking you slightly.

You panted with need, praying for him to never stop.

He growled passionately at your nape, bumping into you with all his force. You felt so good and couldn't imagine, if you could ever feel better, but when his other hand slipped down to your clit, stimulating you even more with intense yet gentle rubbing, you realized, that you actually could.

“Oh, Sev, I...” The desired moment was so close. “I...” you stuttered, unable to say a word.

You moaned and whimpered, as your body trembled under his in sweet convulsions.

Your walls tightened around him, sending pulse through his erection, bringing Snape to the edge.

He slowed down, never stopping to press on your swollen bud, extending your pleasure. Eyes closed, you enjoyed his every touch.

“Merlin, you destroyed me…” breathless, you collapsed on his desk, shattered and exhausted.

“Do not make fast conclusions, sweetheart…” Snape whispered into your ear. He straightened up, grabbed you firmly by the hips again and started thrusting into you even more violently. He held back at his last limits, wishing you to cum for him one more time.

Overstimulated, you felt the heat in your abdomen explode in euphoric outburst. Crying out Severus’ name over and over, you shuddered, riding the wave of bliss and pleasure.

Now Snape could finally give way for himself, releasing unbearable tension he held back inside, reaching his climax. He snarled and growled, pushing you slowly, but strongly, filling you with his seed.

With the last few thrusts, he slumped down over you on his elbows, trying to catch his breath. You couldn’t come to your senses as well and laid motionless on his desk, under the weight of his body. The man made you a sobbing, panting and quivering mess.

Buried his face in your hair, he kissed your neck and shoulder. You enjoyed his heavy breath on your skin, the vibration of his chest from his rare roars, still bursting out of his chest.

He leisurely rose to his feet, buttoning up his pants and, gently lifting you from the table, turned you to himself. You wrapped your arms around his neck, looking into his eyes with the happiest glance.

Snape delicately wiped wet traces from your cheeks. He got used to finding tears on your face after the moments of closeness, which proved he brought you to the highest point.

He gently kissed your eyes.

“Thank you ...” you whispered faintly, carefully brushing his lips with yours.

He slowly kissed you back, having no desire to let go off you.

Clinging to him, you laughed timidly. “Can't stand on my feet…”

He hugged you tightly and grinned.

“I’ll take care of you,” his soft voice resounded in your ears, making you feel so safe and protected.

Snape wrapped his hand around your waist and bent a little to grab your legs, and in a heartbeat you found yourself in his arms. You laughed delighted, when he carried you to his backroom.

He sat you sidelong on the sofa and took a seat beside you, leaning his back on the armrest. Pulling you into his embrace, Snape pressed your head to his shoulder and sighed peacefully.

“I feel so good with you,” you whispered, nuzzling into his chest.

He planted short tender kisses all over your forehead, your temples, your cheeks. Lovingly stroking your hair, he answered so quietly, so that only you could hear. “Me too, my dear... I have never felt so good in my entire life...”

@astridstark13 🍒 @kissing-the-earth @written-by-living-stars @longblackcape @emeraldwitchart @taschaschwarz @bloodyhollows @fluffymadamina @diaryofafan17 @none-of-them-were-you--caskett @ellysiacat @shinykavendish @tickletrout @mybulletproofheart7 @sitkafay @thephenomenalkingofthebrogues394 🦇  @otaku4potato @magnificentbandittreedonkey @lokilover-39 @floraltheo @wretcheddiablo @youtube4life10  @a-slytherin-sin  @lou-nahdie @joscelyn02  @cookiemonsteryuum  

@dandyrua @just-here-to-read-fics @werewolfbanshee-love

#snape #severus snape #severus snape imagine #snape fanfiction #snape imagine #snape imagines #snape x reader #severus snape x reader #snape fic #severus snape fanfiction #pro snape #snape fandom #snape community

[janelevy]

#3 + Rhekker from the fluffy prompt list... Hopefully you’re still doing those😉😊😍

#3 from the fluff list = “what did you do?”

summary: to celebrate their son’s fifth birthday, connor and ava take him camping, and it doesn’t take long for things to go awry. basically just domestic rhekker and them being the dorkiest parents ever!

a/n: i have no idea why i thought of camping. i guess i thought of the most opposite thing from being doctors in a hospital, and this is what i came up with. needless to say, connor feels a bit out of place in the wilderness haha!

When Connor suggested going on a camping trip to celebrate Charlie’s fifth birthday, Ava’s first thought was to ask him if he hit his head recently.

“Oh, come on, Avey. I’m not going insane. It’s just camping.” Connor was at the stove stirring a pot of macaroni while Ava diced onions at the counter behind him. He turned down the heat and set the wooden spoon aside, moving to face his wife from across the kitchen island. “I mean, how bad can it be?”

“Asking that question is setting you up for failure.” Ava pushed the onion pieces together on the cutting board, only pausing her work briefly to give him a giant eye roll. “Listen, I just find it hard to imagine Connor Rhodes, distinguished surgeon and proud Porsche owner, going out and— oh, what’s it called— ‘roughing it’ in the wilderness.”

He chuckled, but she didn’t miss the hint of exasperation behind his words. “Okay, first off, you also happen to be a distinguished surgeon. And secondly, we’re obviously going to take your car, not mine. We’ll need, like... a tent and whatever else. All that stuff won’t fit in Mr. Grey.”

“I still think it’s about time to sell Mr. Grey and get a nice, safe, dad car. Did you look at those links I sent about the Honda—”

“— the Honda Odyssey, yes, I did see those. More like Odyssey to imminent boredom, though.” Connor shook his head and leaned on the counter to meet her eyes, which were watering from the onions. “Avey, you know we agreed we’re not having any more kids. There’s only three of us. Why do we need a minivan? They’re so... bleh.” He shuddered and stood up again. “Anyway, you’re changing the subject. Don’t think you’re so sneaky.”

“Damn. Foiled me again,” she teased. “But seriously, Connor. The main reason I’m protesting this is because I’m concerned for you. You’d be uncomfortable for an entire weekend. Charlie and I would be fine. He adores mummy-son hikes, and I spent most of my childhood outside in the backyard digging up insects.”

“You also spent a lot of your childhood doing creepy fake surgeries on your stuffed animals,” Connor countered.

“It— it was practice!” she sputtered, unable to suppress the smile that formed in response to his smirk. “Anyway, that has nothing to do with what we’re talking about. I just want to do something all three of us will equally enjoy.”

Connor frowned then, his expression growing more earnest. “Avey, I already asked him what he wants to do. He... seemed super enthused by this idea. I’m not about to tell him no. I don’t care if I have to spend a few days covered in dirt and bug bites and whatever else. I want our baby to be happy.”

She paused in her work, setting the knife down and sighing. “Well, that changes it. The most important thing is what Charlie wants.” Without warning Ava circled around the counter to pull Connor into her arms. She sighed into his shoulder, turning her head so she could speak clearly. “He’s not really a baby anymore, is he?”

At her sniffle, Connor pressed a kiss on her head and murmured, “He’ll be our baby forever if we want him to be. Even when he’s the grouchiest teenager in the world, he’ll still be our baby. Even when he’s forty, he’ll still be our baby.” He gazed past her out to the living room, where their son was crouched on the carpet building towers with the big toddler-friendly Lego blocks.

“He will definitely be the grouchiest teenager in the world. With both of our DNA in him? Yikes,” Ava said. They shared a laugh then, and as Connor went to drain the pasta, she added, “Looks like we’re taking a trip to Bass Pro tomorrow to get some gear.”

Connor glanced over his shoulder, throwing her his millionth smile of the day. All these years, and he still couldn’t help grinning like an idiot around her. “Little dude is gonna be so thrilled,” he told her. And he was right.

Come next weekend, however, they were no longer feeling quite as thrilled about camping. They secured three entire days off, and they planned to savor every minute of them. So on the first Saturday in July, two days before Charlie’s official birthday, they packed up Ava’s SUV and drove out to the wooded shoreline of Lake Michigan and set up camp on a sandy patch near the water. Before Connor even got in the car, he had already layered himself with bug spray and sunscreen, and made sure Ava and Charlie were thoroughly covered as well. It was only after an entire hour-long car ride and unpacking at the campsite when they realized a smear of white zinc had accidentally been left on Charlie’s nose. Ava spent the rest of the day teasing him about it, and Connor waited until they were grilling hot dogs that night to retaliate and “accidentally” squirt a ton of sunblock all over her back. It got all over her tank top and hair, and the way she cursed him in between bouts of laughter drew him to take a midnight dip in the lake with her well within view of their tent, where an overstimulated Charlie had fallen asleep before it was even dark out. That first night swimming below the stars together, with dragonflies and fireflies swirling all around them, was perfect. They had never felt so far away from the city before.

Then came the next morning.

Connor was the first to rouse, rolling over to find Ava and Charlie still deep in slumber. He tousled his son’s hair affectionately; the kid had been passed out for several hours now. That had been bound to happen, though, considering Charlie sprang out of bed yesterday morning at 4 AM because he was too excited to sleep. 

Connor sat up and kicked the sleeping bag off his legs. It was fiercely hot and pretty stuffy in the tent, so his t-shirt was sticking to him like a second skin. He reached over to his things and pulled a pair of khaki shorts on over his boxers, grunting at the limited space and his sweaty, sticky arms and legs. This was not the definition of luxury, that was for sure. At least none of them had gotten any bug bites or ticks or sunburn or leeches or whatever else was out there. Nobody was getting any wounds on his watch.

He had to pee pretty bad, and thankfully Ava had found a campsite that had public restrooms close by to use. Connor had confessed he thought wiping his ass with a leaf was going a bit too far, and luckily she’d conceded. The bathrooms didn’t exactly have spotless marble countertops and hot water, but they were better than nothing. 

So Connor crawled carefully around his son, who was sprawled in between his parents’ sleeping places, and unzipped the flap on the tent (it was a fancy model, and he didn’t even want to know how much it had cost. Whatever the price was had to be too much. But again he had to remind himself— this was all for Charlie. That made it worth it).

Connor didn’t even spare a glance towards their supplies until he came lumbering back from the restrooms. And when he saw what was in front of him, he froze, jaw on the leafy ground.

It was all gone. Every last speck of food was devoured by... some kind of animal. Upon closer inspection at the tattered wrappers and claw marks left behind in the picnic table, it must’ve been a bear. Maybe two bears. Or wolves. God, what the hell lived out here? Connor gritted his teeth and spared the tent a swift glance. Ava wasn’t awake yet. Maybe if he was quick, he could take the car to the nearest convenience store and try to replenish all they’d brought.

But right then, to his horror, he saw his wife’s shadow sit up in the tent, and he heard her sleeping bag rustling. Panic roaring in his blood, Connor zoomed over and right as Ava began to unzip the flap, he stuck his head in the gap and smiled way too widely at her.

“Good morning, Avey! Sleep well?” he asked breathlessly.

She jumped back, startled by his sudden appearance. And of course, she smelled the bullshit all too easily. “... what did you do?” Ava replied, tilting her head as she stretched her arms behind her back and yawned. One eyebrow was up in a high arch, which was already a bad sign.

“Connor,” Ava said when he didn’t answer. Her voice was curt yet gentle. “Honey. What happened?”

He bit his tongue and gave a partial shrug. “Ahh... well... I- I guess you should see for yourself.”

Reluctantly he moved back and allowed her to crawl out of the tent and survey the remains of their food supplies. Right away she surged forward, hands scrabbling over the now empty tabletop. She grasped at empty, chewed-up wrappers, tossing them on the ground in shock and whirling back to face him. “This was supposed to last us two more days, Connor! I thought you secured all this stuff in the car overnight?”

Connor hung his head and let out a long, slow breath. “I... I forgot.” Then he sprang into action, darting back to the tent and retrieving the car keys. “But I can fix it! I’ll go run to the store right now and I’ll be back before Charlie even wakes up.”

Of course, as soon as that left his mouth they heard their son call sleepily from the tent. Then seconds later the little boy emerged from the tent, scratching his messy dark hair.

Ava forced a relaxed smile onto her face, going over to pick him up and hug him to full awakeness. “Good morning, nunu. Did you have sweet dreams?”

“Very sweet dreams, mommy,” Charlie yawned. He squinted his hazel eyes against the sunlight and buried his cheek in his mother’s shoulder the exact same way Ava nestled her face into Connor’s chest. His chubby little fingers played with golden wisps of Ava’s sleep-ruffled hair. “I’m hungry.”

“Don’t worry, little man, I’m gonna go get us something good to eat,” Connor said. He approached them and dropped a kiss on both their cheeks.

“You better,” Ava replied, keeping the threatening tone to a minimum for Charlie’s sake.

Connor unlocked the car and glanced back at her, offering one more apologetic grin. “McDonald’s?” he asked.

“Yes, McDonald’s.”

“I’ll be back soon. Love you.” With that, Connor got in the car and carefully drove off down the gravelly path.

Ava watched him go while rubbing circles into Charlie’s back. “Love you too, Dr. Buffoon.”

#chicago med #connor rhodes #ava bekker #rhekker #fanfic

[winchester-ofthe-lord]

Classic Winchester Adventures - Chapter 3

Square Filled: Cassette Collection

Rating: gen

Warnings: Dean’s interesting eating habits, all da feels?

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: What do unicorn-clouds, the Smurfs and a giant ball pit have in common?

read on ao3     read from the beginning

A/N:  hiya guys, this is chapter 3 of the Classic Winchester Adventures, filling the bingo square "Cassette Collection" of @spnclassicbingo 's challenge. I had an absolute blast writing this chapter, I laughed, I cried, I puked in my mouth a little. I hope you like it, please let me know what you think and stay tuned for the next chapters :)

The clattering of crockery and cutlery mixes with the cheerful, nevertheless serene voices in the well-patronized diner. It's just after eight in the morning and Dean gives a tired yawn. He tries to cover it with his palm though, before shoving a bite of his blueberry pancake into his mouth, moaning contentedly around the fork, his eyes closed.

“Should I give you two a little privacy?” Sam takes a sip of his coffee and grins over the rim of his steaming cup. He places it next to his plate with avocado toast with egg, of which he takes a generous bite.

“You’re just jealous because your food looks like someone already ate and then threw it back up again,” Dean scoffs and moans once again around a mouthful of his delicious pancake. He waves the fork around, pointing vaguely at the remains of his dish and, mouth still full and split into a wide smile, says “This tastes friggin’ awesome, man.”

Sam heaves a slightly frustrated sigh and looks at the amused grin on his brother’s face, swallows politely before he answers, “Y’know Dean, if you gave it a try you’d realize it actually tastes pretty good.” The taller man eyes the unappetizing mess of squished blueberries in batter, drowning in syrup on Deans plate and adds, “And well… my food is, in contrast to your…’awesome’ pancake, at least healthy.”

“Uh-huh,” the older brother huffs disapprovingly and shoves the next, maybe a little too big forkful into his mouth, smearing syrup all over his right cheek in the process. A drop of sticky golden liquid sugar slowly travels down his jaw, pauses at his chin for a brief moment and leaves Dean’s face. It splashes onto the front of his flannel where it creates a dark stain, syrup slowly seeping into the fabric, diameter growing by the minute.

Sam observes his brother in awe - his pleased grin, stuffed round cheeks, the way he’s chewing contentedly on his pancake while humming in enjoyment, happy crinkles around his closed eyes, completely oblivious to the mess on his face and shirt… it’s official, he’s an actual squirrel.

The younger brother snorts a laugh through his nose and shakes his head before he turns his eyes back to the laptop screen next to his plate, and takes another bite of his avocado toast.

“Hey Dean,” Sam clears his throat and swipes toast crumbs off his mouth with a napkin, “Before we’re driving to that ‘Haunted Motel’... y’know, it’s still more than two weeks until the thirteenth, so technically we’d have time for another case.” He glances up to his brother who just finished the last remnants of his pancake, now washing it down with a gulp of his, most likely cold, coffee. His brows knit into a deprecating frown as he puts his empty cup back on the table.

“Uh… yeah, sure,” Dean scrubs a hand over his face, a little surprised at his fingers sticking to his cheek. He holds his syrupy hand in front of his face, apparently contemplating whether he should wipe the gluey sugar on a napkin or rather lick it from his fingers. When he sees Sam’s judgingly raised eyebrows, he decides on the former, cleaning both his hand and his face thoroughly. “So-” he puts down the napkin and devotes all his attention back to Sam- “the case?”

“Right...” Sam thrusts his plate aside and pulls the laptop in front of him instead, eyes quickly skimming the screen. “So, there’s been a few articles in the local newspaper. Relating… weird stuff.”

“Weird stuff? Uh… can you be a little more precise, maybe?”

The taller man purses his lips into a tight smile when the waitress appears at their table to refill their empty mugs, and throws a muttered ‘thank-you’ at her retreating back.

He turns to face Dean again and starts, “So get this. There are reports about things like… the sky being green and the grass blue on one day. Or clouds in the most ridiculous shapes. There was a witness who mentioned a-” He reads the next part right from the screen, quoting the witness word for word- “a ‘unicorn-cloud bouncing across the sky’.”

Dean snorts into his coffee, shoots his brother an amused, curious grin, “A what now?”

“‘Unicorn-cloud’” Sam repeats, suppressing a smile. “Another day all the cars in that town were replaced by toy cars, few weeks later the school looked like a castle in a fairy tale and some houses were turned into some really interesting shapes.” He turns the laptop screen towards Dean to show him tiny pictures of the colorful, bulbous houses and receives an irritated frown.

“One day the lake was covered in foam, like a giant bubble bath. Then another day there was the-” This time not even Sam has the self-restraint to stifle his laugh- “smurf gang and apparently they were running around the town and told everyone they’re trying to escape a giant cat called Azrael and his owner Gargamel.

“Another day, about a month later, every time somebody clapped their hands it became dark as night, and when they clapped again it was day again.” Sam pauses to take a swig of his coffee, his tongue poking out between his teeth afterwards as he chuckles slightly.

“Welp, sure does sound like our kind of weird,” Dean says and snatches the laptop from Sam to read through the articles himself. Maybe his brother’s just messing with him again.

Still cradling the cup in his hands, Sam adds, “Thing is, these... incidents don’t follow a particular pattern, there’s no recognizable structure. They seem to happen arbitrarily. Completely at random intervals.”

“How come we only hear about that stuff now?” the older Winchester wants to know, looking up from the screen and absentmindedly taking a sip of his coffee.

“Well, nobody’s been hurt yet. So far it’s only been pretty innocuous and-” Sam points at the picture of a panicky, tiny blue gnome with a white hat on the laptop and snickers- “to be honest, rather funny things. Also, these, let’s call them phenomena last, as far as I got it right, only one day each.”

Dean flips the laptop shut and empties his coffee in one go. He fishes a few dollar bills out of his wallet and jams them between the empty cup and the tabletop as he pushes himself up, “Well, let's just be on the safe side then. What’d you say where this town was?”

Two days later, Sam and Dean are standing in front of a big, although sort of inconspicuous house. There’s a huge wooden sign in the front yard, colorful and elegantly curved letters saying ‘Nancy’s Home for Children’.

They walk past the sign, gravel crunching under their feet, as Dean straightens the cuff on his dress shirt sleeve that’s peeking out of his FBI jacket.

They’d spent the time since their arrival investigating the previous phenomena, questioning witnesses and even talked to the mayor, until they found out that all incidents are somehow related to one single place - the town’s foster home.

“As it’s most probably a witch... you got your ring?” Sam asks when they reach the door, already holding up his fist to knock.

Dean raises his right hand and wiggles his fingers, showing off the silvery shining iron ring he put on for this very purpose, “Yep.” What is it with monsters and their aversion for iron anyway? He nods towards the sign in the yard as his brother knocks on the door, “So, you think this is some kind of Mary Poppins or Nanny McPhee thing?”

“I don’t know, Dean. That’s why we’re here and we’ll just ask politely,” Sam deadpans and clothes his face in his typical fake courtesy FBI agent smile, before he turns back to the door, waiting for it to open.

“Oh God, no. Please no clowns!!!” Sam shakes his head frantically and waves his hands around in a defensive gesture. Desperately seeking help he looks at Nancy and shakes his head once more for emphasis, sheer panic in his eyes.

Nancy, the foster mother and part-time witch as they found out about an hour ago, reaches out with a soothing hand and places it on Sam’s arm, “No clowns, don’t worry.” She smiles fondly at the man on her couch and glances over to his brother, one of her eyebrows raised in question.

“Naw dammit, why not, Nancy?” one of the two kids in the room complains loudly as he throws both his arms exaggeratedly into the air and sinks down onto his seat with a sulky sigh, before he crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“Hey,” the brunette woman cautions with a raised finger, “I said no swearing, Tim, you know that.” She pats his knee and strokes his cheek with her index finger in a quick motion, “Because you already made your wish, and I think Sam here-” Nancy cocks her head towards the taller Winchester who still looks a little frightened- “doesn’t seem too happy about clowns. You said you wanted both of them to be here tomorrow, so we gotta accept his request and leave the clowns out.”

Dean clears his throat to drag the boy’s attention and leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees while he starts talking, “Y’know Tim, Sammy here ain’t a big fan of clowns, but I’m sure we’re gonna have fun even without ‘em, okay?” He puts on a wide grin and winks at the now also smiling boy in front of him.

“Ugh, fine,” Tim says, gets up and points at Sam. “But you’re coming tomorrow, aren’t you?!” he adds in a demanding tone, causing the younger Winchester to nod in response and smile as well. Tim leaves the living room in a haste, now that he’s got what he wanted, and drags the other kid, Ella as she told them earlier, along with him.

“Sorry, he can be a little difficult sometimes.” Nancy turns back to face Sam and Dean again, her beaming blue eyes focussing on the latter as the corners of her mouth curl upwards.

“No problem, really,” Dean reassures her and licks over his bottom lip, mirroring her flirting smirk.

They realized that Nancy was the witch as soon as they entered her house and she reacted to Dean’s iron ring when they shook hands. That’s why they immediately dropped their FBI fassade and did some straight talking instead.

That’s why they also realized that Nancy was by no means one of the evil, obnoxious representatives of her kind, but actually quite the opposite. That she’s nothing but friendly and warm-hearted, loving and caring towards her foster children.

Nancy explained how she’d always had magical abilities, that her family had taught her how to use them, but that they wanted her to harm other people, to do black magic. She, however, didn’t want to hurt anyone, so she left her coven and started a new family, in a new town - with her foster kids. She wanted to be good.

Despite his usual reluctance regarding witches, Dean couldn’t help but sympathize with her. The beautiful long brown hair, the errand strands that fall into her pretty face whenever she cocks her head in that adorable way, her radiant, bright blue eyes, her athletic figure and her mesmerizing smile might have played a crucial role in his decision making process. A fact he’d never admit to his brother though.

Nancy only ever uses her witchcraft for the sole purpose of birthday presents, she explained further. Whenever it’s one of her fosterling’s birthdays, the kid can make one wish for this special day, on condition that it serves other people in equal measure.

Which might be the reason why the whole town’s been affected more often than not.

“Nancy, I’m afraid you gotta stop this,” Sam told her earnestly when she finished talking. “Someday someone might get hurt. Or other hunters will find you, and I’m not sure if they are as reasonable and-” he stopped to glare at his brother who was currently balancing a tiny basketball on his forehead, while three overly excited children applauded at his remarkable trick and laughed hysterically- “mature as we are...”

In the end, they agree that Nancy could keep using her magic, but should restrict it to a small area around the foster home and shield it from the rest of the town, so as not to drag even more attention to the untypical spectacles.

They also agree, at the children’s urgent entreaty, that the Winchesters will stay and celebrate Paul’s birthday with the whole foster family the next day - much to Dean’s delight.

Nobody wants to tell Dean or Sam what Tim had actually wished for. “It’s a surprise,” the boy declares proudly, showing off his toothy grin. Well… at this very moment it isn’t that toothy, as two of his front teeth are missing, but still he seems exceedingly happy. At least it gives him an adorable lisp.

The brothers say goodbye to the lively gang and drive back to their motel, both equally full of anticipation and perhaps even a little fear at the same time.

It’s almost ten am the next day as the Impala pulls up in front of ‘Nancy’s Home for Children’ and comes to a stop. Dean turns the ignition, he and his brother open their respective doors at the same time. Both their faces lighten up when they already hear children screaming and laughing in excitement, even though they’re still on the other side of the road.

Once again they walk past the big sign and knock on the door. When nobody opens after several minutes of waiting, they decide to round the building to get to the backyard where all the happy noises seem to come from.

“C’mon Sam, Nancy promised not to get any clowns, I think you’re safe,” Dean says with a chuckle when Sam hesitates for a second in front of the garden gate.

As soon as they reach the back porch they’re greeted by three kids almost running right into them, followed by Nancy’s warning voice about someone named Tyler being responsible that nobody gets hurt.

“Kids,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head, giggling to herself. “Oh hey, Sam, Dean, glad you could make it!” Nancy offers them a warm smile and gives both men a brief once over, “What, no fake FBI suits today?”

Before either of the brothers can answer, they get interrupted by a loud announcement of Tim who sprints past them, taking a speedy run-up, “CANNONBALL!” and jumps into the giant ball pit that replaced the creek that usually passes through the backyard. Small plastic balls in all colors of the rainbow explode into the air as his small body gets devoured by the colorful hole in the floor. He bursts through the surface with a high-pitched, excited shriek and climbs out of the pit, running straight towards the grown ups on the porch.

“Hey there, Tim.” Sam says and emits a dull ‘hmmpf’ when the little boy crashes into him, throwing both his arms around the taller Winchester’s waist in pure delight. Sam ruffles a large hand through the boy’s auburn hair, coaxing a joyful laughter from him.

“Did you see my super duper cannonball?” All three adults nod excessively in affirmation, wide smiles on every of their faces.

Tim turns to Dean and hugs him as well, although not as racily as he did with Sam, now that he’s not running anymore.

“Happy Birthday, Tim,” Dean congratulates and scoops the squeaking boy up into his arms, “How old are you now?”

The kid holds up both hands, showing six fingers to the two men. “I’m six!” Tim states, lisp strong on the first and last letter of the word, and he thrashes around in Dean’s arms, struggling to get down on the floor again.

The second his feet meet the floor, he grabs Sam’s hand and drags him through the back door and into the house, “I gotta show you-” The rest of the sentence gets swallowed as the door falls closed, causing both Dean and Nancy to chuckle slightly.

“So, a giant bouce house, huh?” Dean asks, peaking through one of the windows to watch several kids jumping around the living room. He huffs a laugh when he sees Sam being pulled into their middle, surrounded by two toddlers, Tim, one kid around the age of ten and two teenagers who shoot him an apologetic grin.

“Yeah, he wished for the whole house to be turned into a bouncer castle. The ball pit creek was just a little addition I thought might be fun for the kids too,” Nancy says and walks over to a small table with cake and muffins, “Want one?”

Dean gladly takes one of the chocolate covered pastries with sprinkles on top and takes a generous bite, “Nothing like muffins for breakfast,” he mumbles with a contented smile.

He stands next to Nancy who has a worried frown on her face as she looks towards the far end of the back porch. A little girl, the one they met the day before Dean thinks, is sitting on the floorboards, hugging her own knees, while absentmindedly gazing across the yard.

“What’s up with her?” Dean asks Nancy in a calm voice, so the little girl won’t hear him.

“Ella’s only been with us two weeks… She lost her parents in a car accident, and I can’t really get through to her.” Nancy bites down on her bottom lip, her concern about the little girl obviously written in her blue eyes.

Dean swallows the last bite of his muffin and crumples the paper in his hand. “Would it be okay if I tried talking to her?”

“Uhm,” she gives him a irritated look in response. She must see the sincerity and gentleness in his eyes though, because after a few moments of consideration she says, “Yeah, sure. I’m gonna be inside and make sure the mob lets your brother live.”

Dean crosses the porch. “Ella right? Okay if I sit with you?” She nods, the movement only barely noticeable, and the man takes a seat right next to her, letting his eyes roam the beautiful garden.

“How old are you, Ella?” he wants to know. Not the best conversation starter, but it does the job.

“Five.” The little girl turns her head towards Dean and adds, “And a half.”

“Five and a half, wow, so you’re basically almost a grown up, right?” He nudges against her arm, causing a shy giggle into her knees.

“Wanna tell me why you’re not playing with the others?” he asks her with a fond smile.

Ella stops giggling and hugs her knees even more tightly. Several seconds pass until she mumbles, “It’s my mommy’s birthday, too.”

Oh great. Well done, Winchester. Making a small girl even more miserable than she already is.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t know that,” he tries to appease, “You miss your parents, huh?” He puts an arm around her shoulders when she, once again, nods into her knees. “Y’know, I lost my mom too.” He doesn’t even know why he’s telling her this, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

She lifts her head and looks at him, teary-eyes, blinking her long lashes repeatedly, “Really?”

“Yeah, I was four,” he says, rubbing soothing circles into her shoulder, “My brother Sammy was only six months old, so he doesn’t really remember her. But I do. And I miss her every single day.”

Ella leans against him, relaxes into his tender embrace, not even looking up. “Every day?” Her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Every day,” Dean repeats. “You never forget your parents. And it’ll always hurt to think about them. But, the thing is, I’ve always had my brother, y’know. He’s my family. And even though your mom and dad can’t be here with you right now, you got a family too. You’ve got Nancy, and Tim, and Tyler, and Jessie... and all the others whose names I can’t remember.”

He can feel Ella’s chuckle against his ribs and goes on, “But Ella, that doesn’t mean you don’t love your parents anymore. Or that you have to forget them. It just means that there are people who care about you, who are there for you when you need them.”

Dean pushes himself off the porch and stretches a hand out for the slightly confused looking little girl, “C’mon, I wanna show you something.”

Dean opens the passenger door for Ella to climb into the car, and then rounds the Impala to get behind her wheel. He quickly rummages through his cassette collection, decides for a Led Zeppelin tape and puts it into the deck.

For a few minutes they just sit and listen to quiet classic rock, until Dean starts talking again. “This was my parent’s car. For my brother and me this is home,” he says. “Whenever I miss them, or I think I might forget them, I just sit in here and remember the time when we were still all together. It’s not the same, I know, but… it’s our home.”

He turns his head towards Ella on the passenger seat, “Do you have something that belonged to your parents?”

Ella nods and fishes a silver necklace out of her shirt collar with careful fingers, “This was my mommy’s.” She holds the little round pendant out for Dean, before her eyes get stuck on the tape deck, a small grin ghosting over her lips, “And my Daddy had a cassette collection like you. I’ve got it under my bed in my room.”

Dean darts her a wide smile in response, “See? They’re always here. Whenever you listen to your dad’s music, he’s right there with you. And-” he points at her necklace- “so is your mom.”

He fumbles for his wallet, flips it open and pulls out the picture of his mom, along with a small piece of paper. It’s slightly crinkled and a little rough and even torn on some places around the edges. “Here.” Dean offers Ella the photo, “This is my mom.”

She takes it, mirrors the smile Mary has on the picture, and runs her fingers gently over the photo, “She’s very pretty.”

“Yeah, she was,” Dean answers. He unfolds the small piece of paper and grins.

“What’s that?” Ella wants to know and leans across the front seat.

“Sammy, my brother, gave this to me when we were teenagers. He said he’d seen the quote and had to think of me, so he wrote it down. I always have it with me. It’s from a guy called Cicero, he said: ‘The life of the dead is placed on the memories of the living. The love you gave in life keeps people alive beyond their time. Anyone who was given love will always live on in another's heart’.”

Dean chuckles at the puzzled expression on Ella’s face, “It means that, as long as we keep thinking of the people we lost, they’re never completely dead.” He points a finger at her chest, “Because they still live inside our hearts.”

They spend the rest of the day jumping around in the bounce house and drowning in the ball pit, eating tons of amazing birthday cake, playing tag and flirting with Nancy - the latter only on the part of Dean.

When they’re about to leave the foster home after dinner - pizza for everyone - Ella tugs on Dean’s flannel sleeve.

Nancy’s smile is even wider than usual as she’s beaming at Dean with a knowing expression. He crouches down to Ella and she hands him a cassette, shyly glancing down at the floor. He takes it from her and reads the heading: ‘Bruce Springsteen - ‘84’.

“That one of your dad’s?” Dean asks her with a broad grin.

Ella’s gaze is still focused on the floor as she hums her response, “Mhm.” She slowly looks up at him and gives him a smile that makes his chest ache, “I want you to have it… so you don’t forget me.”

“Oh geez, thank you, sweetheart.” He pulls her into his arms and hugs her tightly, whispering in her ear, “Your Dad had a great taste in music, y’know.”

“Thank you for talking to her,” Nancy says to Dean when they’re out on the street, standing next to the Impala, “She seems… I don’t know, lighter somehow. I think you actually helped her a lot, so, thank you.” The brunette woman stands up on her tiptoes and cranes her head to place a soft kiss on Dean’s cheek.

The Impala heads off, Sam holding the Springsteen cassette in his hands, “Seems like someone’s got a new girlfriend,” and wiggles his eyebrows to tease his brother.

Dean snatches the cassette from Sam’s hands and glares at him in feigned offendedness. “You’re just jealous because she likes me better than you. And because I got a present and a peck on the cheek and you didn’t.” He briefly contemplates whether he should stick out his tongue at his younger brother, but then decides against it. He’s a mature, grown up man after all.

“Well, yeah. I mean, while you were flirting with the ladies, I almost threw up, because the kids made me eat like five pieces of cake and then wanted me to jump all around the house.” Sam chuckles to himself, however, which means he’s not really as pissed as he pretends to be.

A few minutes pass in companionable silence until the younger brother speaks up again, “Y’know, I get why she’s doing this. Nancy, I mean. Did you see how happy the kids were? It’s absolutely worth the risk.”

Dean simply nods in response, eyes focused on the street, as they’re headed towards the next motel for the night.

read the next chapter

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[fanders-fic-awards]

A Thousand Dragons (Summer Fic Comp 18)

Summary: Roman and Virgil are camp counselors at Sanders’ Summer Soulmate Camp for soulmates who don’t get along when Roman makes it his mission to rescue Virgil in some kind of heroic act before the day is up. However, his efforts succeeding may not be worth their consequences.

TW: Cussing/swearing, fighting (verbally and a smidge physically), slight angst but mainly fluff

WC: 3875

Ballot

Virgil snorts awake, eyelashes fluttering open as his eyes slowly take in the peaceful atmosphere around him, burning only slightly with sleep. The room is in a soft state taking place just after the sunrise that has golden light pouring through the window, bringing a glow to the cluttered objects surrounding the visible floors and space that is as homey as it is comforting. Virgil sighs and snuggles into his pillow a bit more, mind fuzzy still with sleep but content because right now this moment is full of quiet, ease, and-

An arm is flung across Virgil’s face who doesn’t even yelp with surprise, just frowns deeply at the reminder it serves. And Roman. Roman and his many long limbs being flailed across Virgil including his legs that are tangled with his and his other arm that is snaked around his waist.

For some reason when Roman and Virgil became camp counselors at Sanders’ Soulmate Summer Camp they were immediately thrown into a small cabin together and told they had to share. Virgil supposed it was because of the lack of room the camp had considering the limited options to hold employees in and it did make somewhat sense to pair them together since they were actual soulmates…

But still.

Virgil is allowed to be bitter about whatever he wants and since this particular instance deprives him of having a summer full of silent mornings where he can wake up blissful and alone, then it more than qualifies for a victim of his hatred.

With a light groan, Virgil shifts Roman off of him, earning a growl from the latter as he begrudgingly awakens. Virgil scoffs as he stands, listening to the sounds of Roman yawning and wiping his eyes clear of sleep while he walks over to the coat-hanger by the door of the tiny room and grabs one of the caps there, the one with the purple trim.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” Virgil says as he slips on the hat, making Roman groan. “Work starts at 8 o’clock on the dot and it’s already half past seven.”

“Babe,” Roman whines, only to get his own cap with red trim thrown at his face.

“Don’t ‘babe’ me, Princey.” Virgil gets to work on getting out of his sleepwear and into his counselor uniform with purple decals. “As of now we’re professional partners and it stays that way until eight tonight.” Roman cries again at that, despite this being the routine they’ve had for a whole month now.

“But our jobs are literally to bring soulmates together,” Roman argues for about the millionth time that summer. “Would it be so bad to be all lovey dove-y around each other so the kids get an idea of what it’s like to be in love?”

Virgil shakes his head as he ties his shoelaces. “Roman, how many times do I have to remind you that not all the kids are romantic soulmates and that any displays of affection done by you are definitely not PG or child appropriate?” Roman blows a raspberry at that, still too tired to think of a witty response to his boyfriend and climbs out of their shared bed to get ready.

Indeed, Sanders’ Soulmate Summer Camp, like so many other soulmate camps, is made to bring two (or more) rivaling soulmates together or simply create a fun experience to soulmates who already enjoyed one another’s company, be it platonically or romantically. This isn’t exactly Roman and Virgil’s first year at the camp, but it is their first year working there as counselors. Thankfully, the owner of the camp, the lovable ray of sunshine known as Thomas Sanders, is still in charge so the camp is still as eccentric and fun as ever. Though Virgil would never admit it.

Eventually Roman fully wakes up and gets into his own uniform that matched his cap with all its red decals whilst continuing to complain about his job as Virgil shrugged on his hoodie on top of his uniform.

“I don’t know how you can stand to wear that thing in July, Charlie Frown,” Roman huffs as he slips on his knee-high socks. “It’s Florida. It’s boiling out there and that thing is thick and black.”

“And I don’t understand how you take so long to get ready,” Virgil grumbles under his humming of a My Chemical Romance song. “Seriously, how much product does a guy need in his hair for his stupid counseling job?”

“Some of us have standards, my Emo Nightmare,” Roman says before pecking Virgil’s cheek, who scowls in response. “What? Someone has to keep this relationship exciting.” Virgil doesn’t know what to make of the wink Roman tossed his way afterwards, but he simply mutters some curse under his breath and swung open the door that lead to the outdoors. It was going to be a long day.

-

Roman squeezes the syrup bottle in between his hands until it’s whining and letting loose of all the gooey goodness it has left inside it.

“Careful, Ro,” Virgil says, wolfing down his own pancakes, “you’re gonna murder the thing.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll teach it a lesson,” Roman grunts, finally releasing the bottle of its torture and placing it back on the wooden tabletop. “Besides, I kill only for you, J.D-elightful.” Virgil snickers despite himself as Roman hums “Seventeen” under his breath until a scream bursts out from somewhere across the Mess Hall.

Both counselors look up to see a kid throwing their pancakes at the one sitting next to them, no doubt their soulmate. Virgil snickers as their fellow counselors, Logan and Patton, run to separate the two and try and clean the poor crying kid with pancake smeared all around their face. In full honesty, Logan and Patton didn’t need to come to a summer camp together. They got along just fine, at least on Patton’s behalf, with Logan being the only one a bit resentful of their relationship but he got over it soon enough. They were perfect for each other. Yuck.

Roman, taking full advantage of the situation, screams out, “FOOD FIGHT!” Virgil jumps a little at his boyfriend’s exclamation, turning his head to see Roman already shoveling pancakes into his hands and throwing it across the room right into Logan’s face. Virgil has to admit it, he has pretty good aim if the cheering kids’ approval was any indication, but Logan doesn’t seem to appreciate this fact.

“Roman, that was highly uncalled for-“ Logan says through gritted teeth, trying desperately to wipe off the syrup from his face with his hands but to no avail until another pancake hits him, this time from his own boyfriend. Everyone either gasps or laughs louder as Patton makes an apologetic face and licks some syrup off of his hand.

“Sorry, Lo, I couldn’t help it,” Patton giggles making his soulmate scoff.

“Very well. I just hope you have realized your decision will lead to some undesirable consequences.”

“Like wha-“

A pancake flies to Patton’s face and Logan smirks at the image of his boyfriend peeling it off of himself.

“Oh it is on.”

The whole room practically erupts with action. Campers are throwing pancakes at each other, rounds of laughter were being traded harmoniously, and soon the place is very obviously divided into two halves. On one side is Patton and Logan, throwing (or as Virgil liked to say, “yeeting”) their breakfasts to the other that held Roman and poor Virgil who is trying to hide and avoid getting hit during the gigantic mess.

Eventually, Roman looks down at him with a charming smile and says something, but Virgil’s stupid ears can’t hear him over the stupid angel singing he was hearing while looking at Roman’s stupidly handsome face. And yelling. Yeah, that too.

“What?” Virgil cries over the madness.

“Can you help me?” Roman repeats while flinging a pancake to a small kid’s face—Joan, Virgil believes their name is.

“Yeah, okay.” Virgil rises up from his hunched over position, grabbing a flimsy pancake and aiming for Joan’s soulmate, Talyn, but missing by… a lot. It’s too embarrassing to even try to estimate the distance he was off by, but Roman just sends him a sympathetic smile.

“It’s okay, Virge,” he says in a sing-song voice. “I suppose I’ll just have to protect you like a real Prince Charming. You just hide behind me, my little damsel-forever-in-distress.”

Virgil’s face wrinkles up at that and he shakes his head, more motivated now as he angrily grabs a pancake and properly flings it at Talyn’s face in an act of what could best be described as pure impulse. He wipes his hands clean of syrup and smirks at his boyfriend.

“I need no one’s help,” he says simply. Roman just gapes at him and—his stillness making him an easy target—gets hit right on his beautiful cheek. He shrieks out in horror making Virgil laugh. Roman scoffs and shakes himself off of the pancake and watches Virgil with a semi-angry glare.

How could he just reject his offer to protect him? Roman is upset now, but no longer at the kids throwing their breakfasts at his face. He mentally makes it his mission in that moment to save Virgil to get him back to the point where he was swooning in his arms before the day ended. Yeah. That was a good plan. The swooning may be uncharacteristic of his soulmate, admittedly, but Roman’s imagination is a hopeful one…

Even when he is hit by another pancake, setting Virgil into a new fit of laughter.

-

The food fight came and went and Roman still didn’t have any luck. His idea to rescue Virgil at one point or another was slowly growing more and more attached to him as the minutes went by from breakfast and cleaning himself up a bit and soon he was convinced completing his mission was at the top of his priorities list. But with the food fight done and over with, what danger could Virgil possibly get himself into now?

Roman realized his question was answered fairly fast when they arrived near the camp lake, Lake Dreamscape (Roman named it himself), and found Thomas with a bunch of canoes.

“Alright, everybody!” he cried excitedly as the campers all gathered around him. “Grab your soulmate and hop into one of these bad boys! We’re all going for a little boating adventure!”

“Does that include counselors?” Logan asked from where he was standing beside Patton.

“Absolutely!” Thomas said with a bright smile, already hopping into his own canoe. Thomas—despite founding a literal summer camp for soulmates—had yet to find his own soulmate, but the man was so full of love and joy he fact was easily overlooked by most. Virgil grumbled something incoherent beside Roman, who saw his opportunity and perked up.

“Hey, now! It’ll be okay! I’ll be right there with you the entire time and I’ll be there to save you should any foul lake beast come to steal you away from me,” Roman assured Virgil, who rolled his eyes at his antics and grabbed an oar.

“Yeah, sure,” he said sarcastically, “sounds like fun.”

Roman just frowned and soon both were in the water with their canoe, paddling slowly from somewhere in the middle of the group. Virgil’s eyes were everywhere, anxiously watching the kids around them to make sure none of them had fallen into the deep water yet when Roman suddenly grabbed his hand.

“Virge, you’re getting yourself worked up again. We’re fine,” Roman soothed him. “You know what? Music always makes everything better. What song do you want me to sing? ‘Maybe’ from Annie? ‘So This Is Love’ form Cinderella?” Roman’s eyebrows wiggles a bit at that suggestion and Virgil pushed his shoulder playfully.

“Please don’t sing. I don’t need you making this worse right now.”

Roman gasped, offended, but was quickly composed again as he began to sing along to “It’s Over, Isn’t It?” from Steven Universe. It was one of Virgil’s favorites because of the angst but he also had a soft spot for Pearl’s graceful dancing, secretly. It was one of his favorite scenes from the show.

Roman smiled as he watched Virgil slowly calm down, but stopped when he heard the noise of heavy splashing. Just as he turned in the direction of the sound a large splash of fresh lake water was smacked into his face, reminding him of the pancakes from that morning.

He screamed, using his hands to rid his eyes of water before looking up at Joan’s laughing face. “That’s for the pancake his morning, Roman!” they yelled.

“That’s Mr. Prince to you! And you already got me back for that! Twice!”

Joan just blew a raspberry to his face and continued rowing and Virgil took the chance to lean close to his boyfriend and wipe off the wetness with his sleeve.

“My hair… my beautiful hair…” Roman whined, leaning into Virgil’s touch absentmindedly.

Virgil snorted and shushed him. “I know, Ro. I know. I told you not to spend so much time on it.”

“Not even the pancakes hit it, but now-!”

“Roman,” Virgil said sternly, cradling his face carefully in his hands. “God, I love you, you self-obsessed jerk. You’re okay. You’re fine. I’m going to take care of you.” And with that, Virgil took away the last of the water around Roman’s sticky face. And he took away a bit of his ego, it seemed, when he realized that Virgil had yet again not allowed Roman to save him—and now it seemed it was the their way around.

Roman growled a bit internally. This would do. This would not do at all.

-

Virgil stuffed his hands in his pockets, stomping around the campgrounds in a way that showed his obvious anger. It was their break time, and instead of getting some time alone in peace like he had planned to have, Roman had just texted him he needed him. With Roman, Virgil could never be too sure if there was a real emergency present, but being the worried—and angered—boyfriend he was, he made his way to where Roman told him he was.

Before he was even near where Roman told him to go, however, he saw the tall object standing over a few of the campers’ cabins, eyes widening before narrowing. “Roman, goddamnit, what did you do now?” Virgil said to himself, rushing a bit faster to where the giant inflatable dragon was standing.

He finally got to its base, looking down at its air-filled purple feet with a frown. Roman wasn’t here and neither were any campers. Come to think of it, he couldn’t hear any sounds at all, which was highly unlike his soulmate and the kids.

“Roman!” Virgil called out, already fed up. “Logan! Patton? Guys, come on! What did you need?! And what’s with the ginormous dragon-?”

Virgil’s yelling stopped, though, when he realized the dragon was tipping over, and his direction. He couldn’t help it, he screamed. Frozen with fear, he didn’t move, not even when he heard a sudden rush of laughing and screaming coming from the campers all hidden around him.

Virgil just stared up at shock at the thing as it neared closer and closer to him, barely able to make out the campers climbing its neck and pushing it down on him. What the fuck? Were they trying to kill him? For what?! Was this punishment for something? Virgil knew he’d done plenty of bad things in his life but was this really necessary, God?

Just as it seemed the inflatable beast was about to squash him flat, Roman came out of nowhere and stood in front of him. Virgil blinked at his boyfriend as he held up a sword made of wood with a small point, smiling heroically.

“I shall save you, my love! Down with the dragon!” he cried, and with that jabbed the sword into the dragon’s approaching chest. Air started sleeping out immediately and Roman threw his sword to the ground and grabbed Virgil, carrying him princess style out of the way. They both watched as the dragon fell to the ground, already nearly flat as the kids that were on top of it laughed and jumped off of it.

Virgil was still breathing hard as Roman let him down, and he turned to him with confused and terrified eyes. “Do… do I want to know what just happened?” he croaked out and Roman simply pecked his lips in response. “Hey!” Virgil slapped him away.

“I saved you, obviously, my love!” Roman announced happily, so full of pride he was practically glowing, chin tilted to the sun and basking in its heat. Instead of praising him and thanking him whilst showering him with hugs and kisses like he expected, however, Virgil just slapped him again.

“Wha-“ Roman started, looking at his soulmate with a dumbfound face and Virgil almost wanted to laugh.

“That’s for almost killing me with a stupid inflatable!” Virgil howled, pure anger boiling in his veins, then he stepped on Roman’s foot. “And that’s for assuming I’m a petty princess that always needs saving!”

Virgil stomped over to Roman’s sword and picked it up, then threw it at the boy’s feet. “Because I’m not, Ro. And I thought you understood that.” His voice wavered as if he was crying, and maybe he was but he ran away too soon for Roman to see.

What had he done?

-

Virgil sat near the campfire, watching the sparks and embers carefully through his steady breaths. It was past nine so the campers were already in their beds, so they wouldn’t be able to see the tears dropping down his face. In reality the things that happened that day didn’t really unsettle him. He was just sensitive over the fact that Roman still thought he was helpless to him. It was stupid, but he hated feeling useless.

Back when Virgil and Roman had first discovered they were soulmates they didn’t get along at all. Roman was a stuck-up rich kid and Virgil was a goth twelve year old introvert who was waiting for a soulmate that was just like him so they could understand him. Both of the were, really. But they got each other.

That summer Roman and Virgil became close friends thanks to Thomas Sanders’ many bonding activities, and not long after that they began dating. In the midst of all this it became very clear to Virgil that Roman was deeply in love with him while he himself was still getting used to the relationship, but he didn’t necessarily mind.

When they were thirteen Virgil made Roman promise him something, though. He knew Roman was aching to give him affection every second of every day and he knew of his obsession of acting like a Disney prince, but sometimes—okay, most of the time—Virgil didn’t want to be pampered or worshipped like he couldn’t handle himself. He had a reputation and he didn’t want to always give into Roman too easily.

So Roman promised to never treat him like was useless. Like he wasn’t strong. Like he was worthless. But now, five years later, he did anyways.

Virgil sniffled a bit more until he heard the sounds of footsteps approaching and soon someone was sitting on the log beside him. Virgil slowly turned to see Roman’s crestfallen face, chestnut eyes trained on the swirling flames of the fire before him, mouth set in a deep frown. He must have remembered.

Virgil looked up at the midnight blue sky as Roman took a deep breath, ready to apologize but Virgil shushed him. “Don’t,” he said.

“Virgil?” Roman whispered.

“Just don’t. You don’t need to apologize. What’s done is done, Princey,” Virgil elaborated, but Roman still wasn’t satisfied.

“Virgil, stop it,” he ordered, shifting his whole body to face his soulmate. “I- I know what I’ve done is horrible. I know you’re gonna probably never forgive me for all of this. But- I’m sorry. I really, really am. I’m sorry I broke the promise. I’m sorry for forgetting the promise in the first place. I’m sorry for using your credit card to get a giant inflatable dragon delivered here in the middle of nowhere.”

“You what-“

“But what I’m most sorry for is for making you feel like you’re nothing.” Virgil looked at him, and Roman’s heart broke at the wounded look he gave him. “Virgil, I love you more than anything. You know that. What I did today was a bit unnecessary-“

“A bit?”

“-but think about it! What if something really did happen to you and you were too scared to do anything? I want to be there for you, Virge. Do you know why?”

“…Why?”

“Because of this,” Roman said and without further warning, shoved Virgil’s hoodie sleeve up to his elbow and unmasked the words marked there since the day he was born. “You know what those words say? They say, ‘What do you want?’”

“I know how to read, Roman.”

“Don’t give me that look. I know you fretted about those words for most of your life and thought about what they could possibly mean. I know I’m the reason you have anxiety and depression and you were stuck in a shell for all of your childhood. And then I said those exact words when you accidentally bumped into me in the hall. And I’m sorry.” Roman’s voice broke as he let out a small sob.

“I’m sorry because I love you so much and I’ve hurt you so much and I don’t deserve you in the slightest,” Roman continued. “Don’t you think I know that? Do you know how much it hurts everyday to see those words on your arm, to know they’re there for forever because of me? All I want to do is make it up to you, Virgil. To save you again and again so you will no longer doubt how much I care for you.”

“Ro-“

Roman shook his head and looked down at his own arm. “What do these words on my arm say?”

“‘Someone to understand me,’” Virgil said without even looking.

“You wanted someone to understand you all those years ago. Well, this is me finally saying I understand you now,” Roman said, taking his hands in his and squeezing them firmly. “I swear on my life that I will never again put you in danger or hurt you purposefully, Virgil Storm. You are my soulmate, you are my love, but more than that you’re my friend. Up to now I have always believed the best thing I could do for you was slay a thousand dragons for you, but now I realize… I realize we should instead focus on slaying a thousand dragons together.”

“Metaphorical dragons?” Virgil asked quietly.

“Why not?” Roman answered with a soft smile.

Virgil chuckled and shook his head. “You’re so lucky I love you.” Virgil then opened up his arms, grinning stupidly at the love of his life.

“Believe me, I know,” Roman said before settling into Virgil’s warm embrace.

@rosesandstuff

[nebula-starlight]

Virus (Part 11 - Full Circle)

Geer woke with a pounding headache, seeing first the imprint of his head into the wall before realizing his claws were covered in blood. Panic beginning to churn in his gut, he started to move when he heard a soft snore come from somewhere around him and he froze, eyes going wide as it felt like his heart would beat right out of his chest. Had Nether actually...? No, surely he wasn’t that cruel! He knew the trauma Narssia had endured and would never take advantage of her in such a weakened state... would he?

Rising as he dry swallowed to keep the nausea at bay, he glanced at the bed, shaking slightly in dread at what he’d find but was surprised by the sight of Narssia asleep, the sheets slightly bloodstained in spots. Judging from the lack of sunlight he guessed it was still early in the morning, deciding he had to do something that would hurt them both. As much as he hated it, what had happened during the night could not occur again. Truthfully it was surprising that the authorities hadn’t tracked both of them down at this point. Sure Naris was part of the local clinic staff but to have no one check up on her was odd.

Stepping out of her bedroom, he winced, stumbling against a wall as his breath hissed out from between his jaws. His chest... it felt like a sledgehammer was being pounded against his ribcage. Nether was awake, silent towards him, but desiring control once more. He couldn’t give the soul that satisfaction yet. There was something he desperately needed to do first... after he made one other stop.

Luckily there was a bathroom just on the other side of the kitchen and he quickly darted inside, vision doubling upon itself as his earlier attempts to quell the nauseous feeling failed him. Perhaps it was that the smell of blood had penetrated so deeply into his nostrils that it almost made him gag once, twice even before he even crawled over to the smaller washbasin in acceptance of what was to come. Why he hadn’t gotten sick last night or even the night before he wasn’t sure, not exactly relishing the thought of spilling his guts out. It truly was no secret that blood made him squeamish, despite his prior profession.

Still, the minute he rested his chin on the edge of the carved, colored porcelain he knew his fight was over. Any energy he had left seemed to flee as his jaw opened and the nausea turned into retching, his head dropping into the bowl to spare the rest of the space from being tainted.

What seemed like hours later, Geer slowly left the bathroom and made his way finally into the kitchen, each step shaky as he fought back against the monster stirring inside. Not again! He was spent, exhausted from his earlier retching, but wasn’t about to have a repeat of the night before. Shoulders slumped, he crossed onto the tiled floor with a heavy sigh, eyes lifting wearily as he searched for a scrape of paper and ink. It was for the best. He couldn’t afford to stay any longer, no matter how his heart might long to remain by her side.

Finding what he needed, he leaned against the counter, dipping a single clawtip into the inkwell before beginning to write.

My dearest Naris,

As much as it pains me to have to write this, unfortunately I feel I must. After the events of last night I cannot, in good conscious, stay here any longer. Seeing what that monster did, being unable to prevent any of it... I feel like I failed you so terribly. I had thought maybe that seeing you would help somehow control him - it did not and, instead, only made things worse. Now I see that the two souls can never be allowed to interact. If they are... only death and destruction will follow, that I guarantee. So now I must run. I must find a place away from here, away from... you. I suggest you do the same. Flee what you’ve known as your home. No doubt someone has seen or at least heard of what has happened over the course of these last few days. I fear that the authorities will be coming and I do not wish to have to endure whatever torture they may have planned. Even now I can feel him stirring... He’s angry, furious at me. All because I somehow managed to claw my way back out for just a brief second. Time enough to spare you from whatever dark fantasies roamed through his head. That is not the soul I first met - that, as time passes, I see now why he was considered- called rather, the illusionist. He tricks everyone around him, deceives them with manipulation and false words. All while it benefits him. I truly wish I could stay. If I was able- Had the circumstances been different I- I would have likely asked to court you. I see something in you that reminds me of myself. A determination even in the face of unimaginable tragedy. Never lose that, my dear. Now I must leave-

He flinched, hearing mocking laughter echo around him, his claw frozen over the page for a second before resuming.

I have no idea where I will go but I must find someplace that is isolated, someplace where he cannot reek havoc. As I said before, I suggest that you to do the same. Take nothing- Take one thing with you. The music box. Hopefully it should at least keep her at bay... although I do not know how effective it should be long-term. I love you Narssia. Never forget that.

I treasure you with all my heart,

Geer

He was suddenly jerked back, a panicked scream dying in his throat as the world around him went black...

Nether rolled his shoulders with a painful crack, picking himself up off the floor from where his sudden possession of Geer had caused the drake to fall onto his back. Why the nerve of him to write that whole thing... knowing exactly all the while who hid in waiting. He should have just taken him over sooner and spared himself the headache of having to read that nauseating love-fest. Then again...

He snarled, eyes glowing a deep red as he started for her bedroom, pausing only briefly outside of it to grab the music box in his aura before he returned to the den and hurled the musical trinket at the wall. The wooden case cracked but he wasn’t finished, flicking it at the fireplace before igniting the wood inside with a slight nudge of his magic. Let her see if she could keep that menace controlled without the lull of music! They both deserved to get captured and experimented on while he lived out in the wild away from anyone and everyone.

He hated it! Hated feeling the emotions of each member of the pathetic scaled race who got close to him. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? All he wanted to do was scream until his lungs gave out but that would no do good, that he knew from experience. Leaving seemed ideal but if the act woke Geer... No, there was no way his host would rouse so soon after being violently pulled under.

Still, he needed something to take the edge off. Something to dull his senses so he wasn’t feeling like he was bouncing all around the room. An excess of emotionally-charged energy never did him any good. Often it always brought out the guilt and he... couldn’t have that. She made her choice. He had done the right thing. No matter what he would stand by that thought. It was the only thing to get him through, besides a strong drink every now and then.

Actually that seemed like the perfect idea...

The tavern was mostly empty when he pushed open the swinging doors, noticing a few patrons lingering about with their drinks as they chatted to others. He could care less, crossing the stained wooden floor as quickly as possible and stepping up to the counter. The low hanging lights pulsed, his concentration flickering for a moment before he came back to alertness and snapped at the dragoness behind the warped wooden bar for a pint of mead. How long had it been since he last drank?

Taking the beverage she hesitantly offered with an already shaking forepaw, he snarled to be left alone as he spotted an empty booth and sat down in it. Staring down into the amber liquid as he swirled it around lazily, Nether tried to tune out the vibes that crawled along his back. Damn his empathy! Even the few around him could sway him... rile up his already heightened senses. Better to just drown himself in alcohol then. Maybe it would also take away the faint whisper in the back of his head that he’d screwed up yet again. Just another failure to add to his long list.

He really wasn’t sure how many he ended up having. The table was littered with overturned mugs and he could barely keep his head up. His vision swam, colors bleeding together as he felt the formerly jovial energy of the place turn dark. Not again... All he wanted was to be forgotten about. Surely no one would deprive him of such a simple request. Just let him drink away the grief in silence...

Apparently his wish wasn’t to be upheld, seeing what he thought was movement from the corner of his eye. Nether sloppily turned towards it, his foreclaws dragging against the worn wood as he brought his remaining beverage with him. Maybe it was just that pretty ‘ness coming with a refill?

Or not.

His head slammed down against the tabletop amidst the sound of breaking glass and something sharp and jagged pressed up on his throat as a raspy, heavily accented voice pulled him from his drunken stupor slightly.

“We don’t tolerate weird strangers here. Either get lost or ya leave with yer tail tucked between yer legs. Hear that punk!”

He wheezed from lack of oxygen, only to then stumble back coughing as a hard punch to his chest landed. They meant business then. That was fine... He could show them how he responded to such violence. Only he had a feeling as his eyes begun to glow softly that they wouldn’t be quite as lively afterwards.

The formerly pristine establishment looked as though a war had erupted inside, blood smeared along the walls and floor alike as Nether sat in the dead center, cleaning bits of organs off his claws. He was always ready for a bloodbath but this one in particular had been rather fine. A true testament to the magic flowing through him. Still, he was a lost soul and what better way to replenish his energy than to cause a little chaos, spill a little blood. Of course he could have been more discreet given there was a pile of bodies against the once welcoming entrance but he did plan on torching it soon enough. He just wanted to have a little fun first...

Fun... When was the last time he could properly say he had fun? Flying with Versi alone had been fun but those days were long passed. Taking another look at the carnage around him, he sighed and staggered to his feet, still gripping one final beverage as he took a sip before walking out.

Memories hurt too much. He never thought he’d admit it but that was the truth. It had been so long ago and yet he kept running, kept trying to put distance between him and those vicious scars. He didn’t even know where he was walking... too distracted by the echos of his bloody past. Why was it always his fault? He killed her... killed so many under the guise of protecting their land. What use was protection if everyone kept dying?!

Screaming out his rage, he broke out into a run, the dirt path under his feet changing gradually into grass and dead leaves. Everything was his fault! If he had never woke in the first place then... Nether blinked, skidding to a stop as his foreclaws dipped into water. A lake? How far out had he gone? Nothing looked familiar around him. Trees devoid of leaves... moist earth under his paws... Where even was he?

Backing up, he glanced around, pulling Geer’s cloak tighter around his body to shield himself from the cold wind that rattled through the empty branches. He’d gotten lost, hadn’t he? Oh well, no one around to see his pitiful state then. Lifting the mug he’d stolen from the tavern, he drank heavily from it, each drop of alcohol burning away his guilt and making his senses even further scrambled. Smashing the now empty mug into the ground beside him, he stared out into the small lake he’d discovered and started to laugh, wobbling unsteadily. He was free! No more was he drowning in that vile poison which leaked from his soul. Even the nuances of the common tongue had returned to him fully as though he’d never lost it in the first place.

His amusement faded, replaced by coughing before he retched into the water. Either he wasn’t used to getting drunk after such a long time or the body he inhabited was a weakling who couldn’t hold down alcohol well. Head spinning, he fell to his haunches, content for once to stay where he was until he could actually focus on what was in front of him.

His fault. His error. His mistake.

Forgotten... Betrayed... Replaced...

“Geer?”

Nether’s head snapped up, irises glowing faintly as he glanced back out of the corner of his eye to see the crouched form of the one being he honestly never expected he’d see again after the letter the cripple had written. He kept still, feeling the cold wind gust against his chest and flutter the edges of his cloak. What could he say? Would words even matter now after how he treated her? It hadn’t been right, he knew that, but the stress had been building up too much and...

“I know I’m not who you expected.” She admitted as she crept closer, her voice strangely husky as though she’d been under a great deal of emotional stress. “Believe me, I wish this wasn’t what I was doing either. I-“ Narssia cut her own words off with a sharp cough, the sound jarring to hear as he continued to remain still as stone. “I wanted to stay away but after this morning... It’s better if you see what I’m talking about.”

“There’s no need,” he whispered, voice cracking on the bitter wind despite her advancing muffled clawclicks. “You’ve made your decision as I did mine. Leaking black ooze is not why you sought me out.”

He heard her stop, expecting she’d leave, but was surprised when she spoke again, the sharp rasp of anger bringing to the surface the faintest sense of his deep guilt. “You forced yourself on me, sir. I remember last night, despite the panic, and want to pass along a message of my own...”

She darted forward, smoke rolling over her body before she rammed into him, the blow sending him spinning. Before he could recover, she had caught up from above and slammed him into the ground with a kick from her hind legs. Grunting as the air was knocked from his lungs, Narssia landed overtop of him and snapped at his exposed throat, spittle flying from her maw as her wings rose protectively from her back.

“I gave you a chance because of him! You ruined everything, illusionist.” She slammed her paw into his throat repeatedly before digging her foreclaws into his breastbone near the mark that had been branded into Geer’s skin. “While I’m not as violent as the glitch... My magic is still a force to be reckoned with. A shadow-breather is one of the more unpredictable elemental-wielders. Of course you wouldn’t be aware of such. A high and mighty fallen Shadowling would care little about how magic has evolved.”

Narssia studied him as Nether coughed, keeping him firmly pinned down on his back. “Test my patience again, I dare you. Better yet...” Her eye color shifted, green shining through briefly before her golden-specked yellow returned. “Why don’t we get away from all this?”

She pressed on his throat again, earning a low, pained growl from the suffering spirit. If she kept it up... His pupils shrank, fear crawling up along his spine. Surely she wasn’t trying to force his magic out. But if what she said was true and shadow-wielders were unpredictable then was he sinking lower into a trap where there was only one answer he could give. Already breathing was becoming difficult, each exhale seeming to set his throat on fire. More than just mere surface wounds apparently.

“Let’s go wherever we want. Any place we can be free of judgement.” The sheer change from anger to excitement in her was startling, despite how relieved Nether was that she stepped back and he was able to tend somewhat to his aching throat.

“Where?” He croaked out, unwilling to move but noticing how her eyes glowed green briefly. She couldn’t be...

“Anywhere! So long as it’s away from those who would try to experiment of us.”

The low rasp he heard shifting through her voice confirmed his suspicions, recognizing she was either tapping into Void’s magic or the broken spirit was manipulating her. No matter which was true, he had to act on her delusions.

“Of course,” he muttered, struggling to roll over onto his belly as she stood practically twitching in place. “Freedom...”

Narssia’s eyes were too wide, too dissociated to indicate she was acting on her own mindset. Suggestive control then. A powerful tool he had also used in the past. Now, how would he make it seem like an accident... He struggled to his feet, wings flickering into existence beside him to make him appear larger.

“All magic comes at a cost, Naris. Now surely you-“ He yelped, stumbling back as she raised her tail threateningly to his neck, eyes glowing green.

There was no friendliness in her gaze, stone cold and deadly as he forced himself to swallow. “Take us, now.”

“As you wish.”

Combining magic had never been majorly successful as a spirit but Nether found Narssia’s inherent shadow magic worked well with his own, pulling them both into a space between worlds. Truthfully it wasn’t far from what he imagined Versi had endured as Void had come into being. Still, even after only mere seconds, the process of seeking her magic back out was difficult with so much nothingness pressing down on him.

It took some time but he eventually found it - a spark of green just barely enough to catch his notice. She’d gone farther out than he expected. No matter, now that he knew where she was catching up wouldn’t be hard. Pushing his own soul out towards it, he felt reality warp, unsure at first why it seemed as though he was passing into another world. That shouldn’t be right... unless he misjudged and another being had a similar energy signature to hers.

“And I will see all you dudes- What the fuck?!”

The mini explosion crossing universes had caused left his ears ringing but, then again, it could also have come from the loud screaming that bombarded his senses. Everything was too bright, too noisy, too green... Wait!

The bipedal creature approaching him was doing so cautiously, thrusting out a baggy scrape of cloth he snatched up and held tight over his exposed lower body despite his crouched position. Where the hell was he? What freaky universe had he been drawn into? And why did he feel like his appearance was the catalyst something far darker needed?

“One, two, Anti’s coming for you...”

The second Nether had thrown them into the space between worlds, her head felt as though it was on fire. All that blissful static turned to angry, seething noise that made it hard to think or do anything. Even the ordinarily simple act of moving was difficult but she managed, scanning the unstable expanse as she went for something she could latch onto to ground herself. Finding a magic signature not unlike Nether, however, wasn’t what she wanted but, rather, what Void responded to as positively as expected.

By the time she crossed the barrier between realms, the corrupted spirit had calmed some, content once more to watch in relative silence...

“And I will see you in the next-“

She groaned, head spinning and feeling warmth under her as she kicked out instinctively, earning a whimper from what only could be considered a lesser animal before her eyes started to adjust. The lights where still too bright but having a bipedal humanoid being standing over her wasn’t what she expected.

Oh Sol, she was definitely not in a world comparable to what she’d known. What horror would the monster inside be able to unleash on this unaware race? Furthermore, why was she drawn here? There was nothing special about the male... If one ignored the odd creaking sound coming from under the floor.

#virus #virus/corrupt #we've come full circle #the end of virus is the beginning of corrupt #except there's one more thing to come #an epilogue of sorts will be posted towards the end of the week

[piecesofscully]

The After: ch. 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The town’s skyline punches into the pink smear of clouds; the silhouette of the bulky buildings feigning quality and security against the sun’s setting in the horizon. Her stomach begs for food with a sharp grumble, but she pushes forward at the promise of a dry room and bed, justifying skipping lunch and pushing off dinner.

Candlelight flickers in windows as she passes a few modest houses, walking down the center of Main Street into the heart of town. Water rushes along the sides of the street carrying debris and litter like paper boats to the lowest point, cluttering into a pile of trash somewhere unseen. Scully swallows her revulsion as she walks, unable to ignore the deep ache in her feet and the chattering of her teeth.

A sense of relief floods through her as a broad building comes into view just a block ahead of her. Multiple windows are boarded up with pieces of particleboard and wedges of spare wood, closing off of the gaping holes and offering protection from the Wash. The sign that reads Hampton Inn wails under the gusts of wind, the bursts of current weakening the corroded bolts with each squall, and Scully instinctively ducks as she passes underneath it.  

Cardboard covers the glass paned doors at the entrance, but where the name of the hostel would normally be written is a note to incoming patrons, scrawled with haste in black paint.  

NO GOODS- NO WOOD

NO TRADE- NO MAID

NO PAY- NO PLAY

The warmth nearly smothers her as she pushes through the doors, stealing her breath as it demands feeling into her numb fingers and cheeks. Scully drops her hood to her shoulders and through the dim light she’s able to see that the lobby has been transformed into a makeshift bar, a handful of men line up at what was previously the check-in counter, waiting to trade whatever they have for food and services. Dozens of patrons are perched at round tables that are scattered throughout, their heavy jackets hung on the back of chairs and their feet propped up on the tabletops.

Scully stands at the door and scans her eyes across the crowd, focusing on one man for a fleeting moment, only to move onto the next, then the next. She searches beneath the sea of scraggly facial hair for a glimpse of an ally, a loved one, anyone from the past in the lines of their faces.

Hearty bursts of laughter and feminine giggles erupt as women peruse from table to table with their cleavage spilling from their tops, lounging in the laps of strange men, leaning over to pass a drink as the curve of their buttcheeks peeks out from the frayed bottom of their cut off jeans. No one passes the small bundled woman a second glance as she weaves through, the shells of peanuts crunching under her boots.

“I told ya the last time Keira,” she hears a man’s voice boom over the chatter. She looks to the end of the counter and sees a burly man towering over a blonde woman, his thick black beard hanging to the center of his chest. “No pay, no play!”

Scully crosses towards them, watching as Keira rolls her eyes. “They all play the same, Bobby. No pay at first, but you get them going and pull back, and suddenly they got a handful of goods.”

Bobby slams his fist down on the counter. “Those ain’t my rules-”

“Excuse me,” Scully says.

Bobby’s expression sours and a deep wrinkle forms between his chunky eyebrows as he turns to her. A scar runs from the corner of his left eye down the center of his cheek, still pink suggesting that it’s just healed over, and jagged like a backroad on a map. His eyes are a piercing blue, and his lips curl into a snarl. “Whattya want?”

Keira backs away a few steps, then spins on her heels and crosses to a table of men who greet her with whoops of praise for returning.

“Hey!” Bobby yells once he realizes she’s gone, then grumbles under his breath when she flashes him a toothy smile.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Scully says as she places a box of matches in front of her.

“I’m sure you are,” Bobby replies dryly, then repeats himself. “Whattya want?”

“A room.”

“For the hour?”

Scully’s eyebrow rises. “For the night.”

“Ya sure ‘bout that?” Bobby’s beard flops against his chest and his hair reaches the middle of his back as he tips his head to bark out a laugh, and gestures to the women around her. “I’m sure we have *something* that could satisfy ya, and it won’t require the full night.”

“I just want a dry bed and a quiet room,” she says as she pushes the matches towards him, then adds, “to myself. For the night.”

Bobby narrows his eyes at the matches, then shakes his head. “What else ya got?”

Scully pulls her backpack around to her side and fishes out the can of diced potatoes, then places it on the counter. She catches the key that Bobby pulls from his pocket and slides towards her.

“Be out by sun up,” he says.

“One last thing-”

“Lady, I got a business to run here.”

“Of course,” Scully utters as she pulls Mulder’s picture from her pocket, then holds it up for him to see. “Have you seen this man?”

Bobby flicks his eyes towards the picture, then turns suddenly when he hears a crash come from the other end of the room. “Hey, knock that shit off!” he bellows.

“Please-” Scully starts.

“Sonofabitch, these fuckers have no respect- ah, now what’re ya sayin’?” he asks before he ducks behind the counter.

“My friend,” Scully calls over the clattering of cans being dropped to the floor. She stands on her tip-toes and leans over the counters edge. Bobby squats next to a few torn boxes, throwing canned goods into a sturdy wooden crate. She clears her throat, and asks, “Have you seen him in your establishment?”

“He’s lookin’ pretty clean for these parts,” Bobby says over his shoulder.  

“It’s an old picture. From Before.”

“Pretty boy,” he says with a snort. “That your man?”

Scully rolls her eyes. “Have you seen him?”

Bobby stands and dusts his hands off on his jeans. “Nope.”

“You barely looked at the picture,” Scully says. She thrusts the picture closer to him. “Look again.”

“I said I ain’t seen him,” he replies with a pointed look, and turns to cross to the other end of the counter.

Scully scrambles to follow him, pushing through the cluster of men waiting to trade for a drink. “Mind if I ask a few of your visitors?”

“Do what you like, lady,” Bobby yells, then with the loud slam of his hands on the counter, she’s forgotten. “Now, boys, what’ll it be?”

Scully pulls her hood over her head and turns away from the crowd, towards a sign that hangs by a single nail along the back wall. ‘THE NIGHT’ is scrawled in paint across a chunk of plywood with a jagged arrow pointing towards the stairs. Below it hangs another handmade sign with an arrow that points to the hallway, the glow of dim oil lanterns lighting the path to each room. The doors are shut tight with red rags hanging from the doorknobs of a few. HOURLY.

The ruckus of the bar falls nearly silent as the door to the stairwell closes behind her, and she’s met with complete darkness, the comfort of light spared for those who seek immediate service and pay for companionship. Her heart rate quickens as the darkness permeates around her with the dampness of a thick fog, her chest constricting with heaviness as she wades deeper. Her shallow breaths hiss in her ears, and her eyes grow wide with the insistence to see. She reaches out blindly for something to grab onto, waving her hand in front of her until it connects with the anchor in the ocean of black, the cool metal of the hand rail.

Her palm is moist with sweat as she curls her fingers around it, gripping it tightly. The toes of her boots nudge against the edge of each step as she guides herself upwards to the landing, the thwack followed by the dull thump of her sole, creating the rhythm that sounds like a slow, controlled heartbeat. Once reaching the top of the staircase, she hurries to thrust herself through the door at her right, gulping in air as she emerges into an open hallway.

There are less lanterns that line this corridor, the dome of illumination reaching as far as it’s able, extending to an abrupt ending halfway down the hall. Absolute silence follows her like a shadow as she crosses to the first room on her right, the key slipping with ease into the keyhole. With a snick of the latch and a squeak of the hinges, she’s in her room and closing the door behind her.

A blanket lay in a heap atop of an otherwise bare mattress, and an oil lantern burns brightly on top of a crate next to it. Drapes still hang over the windows, covered with brownish stains spattering from rod to hem, but intact, the rain and wind blocked by the wood nailed up behind them. She locks the door behind her and pushes the only chair beneath the doorknob. Once satisfied in her solitude, her outer clothing comes off piece by piece, shedding the layers of dampness until she wears only a tank top and panties, and spreads each item across the floor to dry.

The blanket feels soft against her skin, promising her a dry warmth that has become so rare as she wraps it around her shoulders, and she lowers herself to the mattress. She doesn’t wonder who slept in the room before her, or the cause behind the deep notches in the drywall. She doesn’t notice that the television has been ripped from the outlet, a gaping hole and torn wallpaper left behind in its absence. Every settlement she’s come across offers an establishment like this one, each one strikingly similar to the one before. Strictly the bare minimum offered for temporary relief.

Her spine pops twice as she reclines into the center of the mattress and allows her gaze to wander around the room, before landing on a contraption tucked into the corner. A large metal bowl sits propped up a foot from the ground, metal prongs encircling it and holding it in position. A smile spreads across Scully’s face as she rolls to her side and pulls a bottle of water from her backpack, then grabs the lantern and crosses to sit cross-legged before the device. She carefully pulls the globe from the burner and sets it aside, then places the burner beneath the bowl, adjusting the ratchet to advance the wick. The flame grows and licks the bottom of the metal, the bowl hissing as she fills it nearly to the rim with water.

As it warms, she retrieves the shampoo from her jacket pocket and strips naked, then again takes her place at the contraption. Her smile widens as she balls her tank-top in the palm of her hand and dips it into the water, a moan vibrating her teeth as she rings it out across her chest. Beads of hot water stream over her breasts and down her belly, collecting to a puddle between her legs before soaking into the carpet.

The heat radiates through her skin and seeps into her bones, thawing the aching chill as she glides the wet tank-top down her arms, sides, and legs, breaking contact only long enough to gather more water. The shampoo smells like flowers and she works it into a lather between her hands, the bubbles pungent with the scent of spring and opaque with the distant memories of sunshine kissing her cheeks.

Goosepimples freckle across her limbs as a draft brushes past her body, and she shivers as it bleeds across her skin, finding herself actually missing the days of sunburn and aloe. Her fingers spread the soap across her body, slipping slightly as they gently knead her tired muscles and scrub away the filth of the After.

>>>Next Chapter>>>

#the after chapter 3 #the after #my writing #msr fanfic #txf fanfic

[achievementtooth]

Beg Me For It

FAHC Ryan and Jeremy

Warnings: Torture, blood

I liked this idea that came of the title asks I got last night, and so I had to write a thing for it. Just know that in any situation, the Vagabond always has the upper hand.

“Answer me!” The growling voice was sharp and clear in the cramped basement, as was the crack of impact immediately after. Only a second later, a low, amused chuckle rose up, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls and floor of the small space.

The basement was a small workshop, fairly well kept but cluttered. Boxes and shelves were stacked up at one end, some of it tossed quickly to the side. Planks of wood were stacked up beneath the wooden stairs, and large saws and machinery took up a wall all their own. A table sat with small sets of drawers on its surface and tools hanging from hooks in a board above it. Some of the hooks were empty, their tools lying on the tabletop, some of them covered in blood that had spread over the towel they rested on. Thrown over one of the small sets of drawers was a battered leather jacket and a black skull mask.

Ryan sat in the center of the room, bindings tight around his chest, wrists, and ankles, keeping him in place in his seat. His dark shirt was torn and wet from blood, as cuts and small stab wounds crossed his chest and arms. A couple fingers of one hand were swollen and broken, and blood flowed from a broken nose and slowly filled Ryan’s mouth with its coppery taste where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. Despite it all, he sat tall, laughing in the face of the man in front of him as blood turned his teeth red and dripped from his lips, a stark contrast to the white face paint he wore.

The man wasn’t much bigger than Ryan himself with a rough, dark beard and hard eyes. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Ryan’s blood staining his hands and arms and spotting the front of his shirt, and he grabbed at a hammer lying on the table just behind him. “Tell me what Ramsey had you out here for, and we can be done,” he promised, voice raised over Ryan’s laughter.

Ryan quieted, grinning his bloody grin and he relaxed as much as he could even as his muscles twitched and limbs shook involuntarily from blood loss and injury. “You and I both know that’s not true. You don’t have the restraint,” he said, carefully trying to make his words come out cool and level without the comical, nasally effect a broken and bleeding nose added to speech.

The hammer swung down and slammed into Ryan’s leg with a heavy whack, the claw end cutting into his thigh and tearing open the skin. Pain flashed from the injury, white and hot, and Ryan’s breath caught in his throat for a moment as he fought to push the sensation away, wall it up to be dealt with later. Spots appeared in his vision and he let out a breath through his teeth, still maintaining his grin.

“You can’t even stop yourself when a man tied to a chair gives you mild criticism,” Ryan gasped. “And you need to work on your technique. There’s no escalation. You start at one hundred and just go. Bad way of torturing someone, they’ll fall unconscious or die far sooner. It’s less drawn out and painful, kind of the opposite of what -”

Again, the hammer swung down, this time the flat end crushing Ryan’s hand and his words cut off abruptly with the snap of bones. “Shut up,” the man said as Ryan quickly worked to compose himself again, taking a slow, heavy breath. “Just tell me what you were doing in our territory.”

Ryan met the man’s gaze levelly, trying to keep his grimace looking like a smile, and said nothing. The man’s eyes narrowed and he jabbed Ryan’s chest with the hammer, pushing it into some of the cuts, the bloody claw end hitting Ryan beneath the chin. “Talk, asshole,” the man growled.

“Do you want me to shut up or talk? Your instructions are confusing,” Ryan asked, and he could feel the hammer’s claw pressing into his skin as he spoke.

There was a moment’s pause before the hammer was pulled away and then slowly set aside on the tool table. Ryan watched, faintly surprised, and was caught off guard when the man turned back quickly, swinging his fist directly into Ryan’s solar plexus. Ryan’s breath left him and he tried to curl in on himself involuntarily, the movement stopped by the bindings keeping him in place. It felt like he couldn’t get a breath in, a heavy pressure on his chest, and he gasped for what air he could get.

The man knelt down to look Ryan in the face as he sat slumped in the chair, and a smirk played across the man’s face. “I promise, it’ll be a lot better for you if you just cooperate.” Ryan coughed weakly, spitting blood as he did so, and he slowly forced himself fully upright again.

Air still didn’t seem to be filling his lungs right, and Ryan took as big a breath as he was able, not much more than a quick, raspy gasp. His smile slowly returned and he leaned forward as much as possible, looming over the man as well as he could. “Beg,” he said, and the man frowned at him.

“What was that?” the man asked, settling back on his heels.

“Beg me. For answers,” Ryan said, slowly getting enough air again to speak, but his sentences were short and choppy, limited by his shallow breaths. “You want them. You need them. Or I’d be dead. Killing the Vagabond? You’d be a legend. But I’m not dead. I can do this all day. Or you stay there. On your knees. Beneath someone who’s tied. And beaten. And beg me for what you want. Beg, and I might help. And we can both be done.”

The man stared at him incredulously and then started laughing, pushing himself upright as his laughter echoed through the small room. He shook his head, turning his back to Ryan and running his fingers over the tools. “For someone who apparently does this all the time, you don’t seem to understand your position,” he said, grabbing a handsaw and turning it over in his hand. “You don’t have the upper hand here. You help me, or you suffer.”

He turned back to Ryan, who had taken the opportunity to compose himself more. “At this rate,” he said, looking at the saw, “not for long. And then you won’t get answers. And you’ll have my crew breathing down your neck. Show me how bady you want this information. We both might come away happy.” The fuller sentences were kind of strained, Ryan’s chest hurting with the words and his breath, but he was quickly recovering from getting the wind knocked out of him.

“Even if you do die, I don’t think the Fakes are going to be around here anytime soon. No one will know what happened to their dog for a long time,” the man said, gently running the teeth of the saw down Ryan’s neck and shoulder. “We’re far from where we started. None of your little friends ever saw what happened to you.”

The saw rested solidly on Ryan’s shoulder, the blades pressing uncomfortably into his skin, but Ryan continued to meet the man’s eyes calmly. The man leaned in close, grabbing onto the back of the chair with his other hand and getting right in Ryan’s face. “All you have to do is answer some questions. We started with the easy one. Why were you there?”

Ryan stared into the man’s cold, dark eyes, leaning his head back a bit to get some distance between them. And then he spit a mouthful of blood and saliva in the man’s face. The man pulled back in surprise, blinking it out of his eyes and swiping at his face with his hand, which only served to smear blood across his face. He snarled and bore down on the saw, the little blades biting into Ryan’s shoulder and tearing as it was pulled across his shoulder.

A low groan escaped Ryan’s throat as his shoulder screamed in pain, but it was quickly dulled into a quiet numbness. Shock and blood loss seemed to be kicking in, killing the pain to almost nothing, even as blood flowed readily from the new wound.

“You’re wrong,” Ryan said after a second, blinking new spots from his vision. “Someone saw. They know.”

As if on cue, the trapdoor at the top of the staircase was pulled open and slammed against the ground outside with a bang, making the man jump. He held the saw up threateningly toward the stairs as a smaller form in a vibrantly colored suit came down just far enough to get a clean line of sight and fire.

The gun cracked loudly in the basement, followed immediately by the man’s scream and the clatter of metal striking concrete as he fell to the ground and dropped the saw. He clutched at his knee, bloody and destroyed by a large caliber bullet, and Ryan could see shards of bone in the injury.

Jeremy stood on the steps, a gun that seemed much too large in his hands pointed at the man. Then he relaxed, throwing the barrel of the gun up to rest on his shoulder, and he looked down at Ryan with a pleased smile. “You look like shit,” he said, moving down the stairs and keeping an eye on the man on the ground.

“Took you long enough,” Ryan griped as Jeremy reached the chair and pulled a knife out from inside his bright purple suit jacket. The ties that held Ryan in place were cut quickly, and Jeremy passed the knife over. Ryan grabbed it with his good hand, the other swollen and held close to his body, but no longer hurting. Everything was starting to sound fuzzy and distant, like something was covering Ryan’s ears, and his body felt like static.

“I was dealing with all your other friends outside. They’re kind of assholes. One of them shot a hole through my hat,” Jeremy said, pointing at his cowboy hat and the small hole in the brim.

As he spoke, the man uncurled himself from his leg, scrambling for one of the drawers nestled beneath the table. Ryan and Jeremy turned toward him, and Jeremy aimed his gun at the man again while Ryan dropped down to the ground. He held his newly acquired knife to the man’s throat and the man froze, glancing over at Ryan. The anger and contempt that had been in his eyes before was quickly fading and giving way to pure fear as he looked from Ryan to Jeremy and back.

“I warned you,” Ryan said. “Now. Beg. Beg me for your life, convince me not to show you real torture. Beg for some kind of forgiveness, for a chance to make everything better. And I’ll make it quick.”

The man’s breath caught audibly in his throat and Ryan could see his hands shaking, eyes wide and wild as he thought. Ryan pressed his blade harder against the man’s throat and he gulped. “Please. Please, don’t. Just...let’s just walk away from this. We’ll pretend it never happened. Okay? Honest misunderstanding, please,” he said, fear quieting his words to almost a whisper.

Ryan glanced at Jeremy, who tilted his head at the man and then looked back at Ryan with a small nod. “You’re lucky I don’t have the energy to play right now,” Ryan said, and he swiped the knife quickly across the man’s throat.

Blood sprayed from the gash, mixing with Ryan’s blood on his face and shirt, and it poured quickly from the fatal wound. The man’s eyes widened and he tried to speak, but the only noise he could make was a wet gurgling gasp as his hands flew to his throat. It didn’t take long until their grip loosened and the man slumped to the ground, eyes rolling up in his head, blood being forced from his throat in smaller and smaller bursts until it trickled out slowly, no longer aided by his heart.

Ryan didn’t realize how much he was shaking until the knife fell from his hand, and the impact against the concrete was so quiet and soft he almost didn’t notice it. His head felt thick and full of cotton, his body numb, as his own blood continued to leave his body through the various cuts inflicted on him.

A hand fell on his shoulder and Jeremy looked at him worriedly, and he opened his mouth and spoke, but the words weren’t quite clear enough for Ryan to make out. They were a faint buzz in the background, and Ryan’s vision started to darken as the blood loss took hold. The last thing he did hear before falling unconscious was Jeremy’s emphatic, “Shit.” And then nothing but blissful darkness.

#Fake AH Crew #FAHC #Ryan Haywood #Jeremy Dooley #Max writes #I was enjoying this idea when I came up with it last night #Not sure how I feel about the finished thing #It was quick and I haven't written in a while #But it was fun nonetheless #And Ryan's okay he just needs rest #Maybe a doctor