#(( ON MY HANDS AND KNEES SHAKING... THIS IS THE SHORTEST ONE BUT JESUS IT HURT TO WRITE ))

[gctchell]

@edenpoise asked: 📱 curious for lilith !

Send 📱 to see how my muse has yours in their phone!

contact photo .

name . 𝐸𝓋𝑒 🌄

connected to emergency contacts . ( n / a )

ringtone . 🎶

last texts .

[ 𝚃𝚇𝚃 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙻𝙸𝙻𝙸𝚃𝙷 7:00AM, 1 / 2 / 20XX ] It's over, Eve. He's gone. Please meet with me. [ 𝚃𝚇𝚃 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙻𝙸𝙻𝙸𝚃𝙷 7:30AM, 1/2/20XX ] At least tell me you're all right. [ 𝚃𝚇𝚃 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙻𝙸𝙻𝙸𝚃𝙷 8:00AM, 1/2/20XX ] Thank you. [ 𝚃𝚇𝚃 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙻𝙸𝙻𝙸𝚃𝙷 11:00AM, 1/2/20XX ] Will you meet with me? Please. [ 𝚃𝚇𝚃 𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 𝙻𝙸𝙻𝙸𝚃𝙷 11:23AM, 1/2/20XX ] Tell me this in person and I will take it to heart all the better.

[kalypsichor]

don’t be cruel [ john lennon x reader ]

summary: You come to class in the shortest little skirt and Professor Lennon is so distracted he can barely teach. Afterwards, he tries taking matters into his own hands... only to be interrupted by the very subject of his fantasy.

prompt: my own fucking post, bc I have no self-control warnings: oral sex, dirty talk, professor kink... this is basically porn and I’m not sorry. oh also there’s dante’s inferno discourse, if that’s upsetting to anyone

i have nothing to say. this is filth. see y’all in the second circle of hell lmao (also, can you spot the 🥪 hint?) 

i was gonna schedule this for 9 am or something but... apparently some of y’all are still awake if my notifs are any indication. so. enjoy. it’s almost 4 am for me

This is so, so wrong.

You’re not that much younger than John, with you in your early twenties and him just approaching thirty. Still, he’s your professor. You’re his student. There’s an unspoken taboo about the whole thing, a clear line that should never be towed. John’s a rational man—after all, he’s a Literature professor—and he knows these things in his head. They’re as clear as day, as obvious as Brontë’s warnings against forbidden love throughout Wuthering Heights. 

All that rationality flies out the window when you come into class this morning wearing a short skirt that makes John almost drop his chalk. 

You greet him with a nod and a smile, as per usual, but John can’t bring himself to smile back. He can’t bring himself to look you in the eyes. So when a flash of hurt streaks through them, he misses it, having already turned his back to write the day’s lesson on the chalkboard.

All of class, John is distracted. Not distracted enough for his students to take notice, of course; he’s familiar enough with the topic and his students are too busy scribbling notes to care. Still, John can’t stop thinking about running his fingers over your ass, about bending you over his desk and fucking you, your pretty little skirt bunched up in his hands. Maybe he’d wrap his tie around your wrists. Make you beg to be touched. And John would give in, if only to hear you whine when he teases your clit.

Thank god for the podium at the front of the room. John’s always been an active teacher, walking up and down the aisles as he lectures, sometimes even sitting on his students’ desks just for the hell of it. Professor McCartney calls it dramatic, but John knows that it brings so much more to his teaching. It keeps his audience engaged, which is exactly what he needs when he’s trying to get them interested in some dead 13th century Italian guy’s rhapsody on death.

Unfortunately, he’s got the worst hard-on ever right now, and even moving slightly behind the podium is causing the fabric of his slacks to shift agonizingly against his erection. John curses having tied his belt so tight this morning. 

He’s halfway through the class, basically talking to a dead room of glazed eyes and drooping pens, when you raise your hand. 

“Sorry, Professor Lennon.” John inhales sharply at the way you say his name and almost misses your next words. “But just now when you mentioned Beatrice, did you mean that she symbolizes divine love? Because isn’t that the whole reason she can take Dante to heaven, whereas Virgil is limited by human reasoning?”

“Yes, that’s right. What did I say?”

You bite your pen and John’s gaze is immediately drawn to the shape of your lips around it. He swears that he can see you almost smirk a little when you speak again.

“You called her ‘forbidden love.’”

Okay. Maybe John is more distracted than he thinks.

The rest of the hour, Johns finds himself glancing at you even more often. And though you’re sitting in the back of the room, John thinks that he catches you looking right back.

For the first time in his career, John has to agree with his students: the end of class can’t come quickly enough. The moment that last straggler pushes out of the lecture hall, the double doors closing behind them, he pushes off from the podium and rushes into his office, not even bothering to lock the door. John just needs some sweet relief and he finds it when he leans against his desk and unbuttons his slacks.

The moment John takes his cock in hand, he groans and lets his head fall back. Fucking hell, he’s been wanting to touch himself since you walked into class in that stupidly short skirt. He knows that this is improper, especially in his own office, but John couldn’t care less right now. He strokes himself with one hand, bracing against the desk with the other. And then his mind veers off and imagines that it’s you touching him. Your hands are so much smaller than John’s. The thought of them wrapped around his cock makes him swear, your name tumbling from his lips before he can stop it. Fuck, he’s getting close, and in his head he can hear you edging him on, can hear you calling his name—

“Professor?”

There’s no time to hide. John can barely even react, eyes jolting open to see your wide, shocked ones… glued to the sight of him masturbating.

“Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry, I- I didn’t hear you knocking, I...” His babbling trails off when you don’t seem to be freaking out. And when you close the door behind you, turning the lock, something else entirely shoots through his body.

“I heard you saying my name.” You walk to where John is standing, his hand still wrapped around his cock. “Were you thinking about me?”

“I, uh. Look, I didn’t-”

The sight of you dropping to your knees in front of him is the hottest thing John has ever seen. Involuntarily, his hand jerks and he lets out a shaky breath. 

“Tell me, please?” And how can he say no when you’re looking up at him like that, biting so innocently at your lip?

Something inside John lurches and he stumbles right across that line separating right from wrong.

“Fuck, I was.” John’s voice pitches a note lower, tone more confident and now it’s your turn to catch your breath in your throat. “Been thinkin’ about you all class, birdie. You knew what you were doing, paradin’ around in that little skirt. I bet you wore it for me, hm?”

You nod your head, a little shyly, and place a hand over his, not quite touching his cock. Still, the sight of your much smaller hand on John’s makes his grip tighten and he grunts. The sound goes right to your core.

“Wanna feel you in my mouth. Can I?”

John barely gets the chance to nod before you’re mouthing at his tip. His hand falls away immediately, joining the other in gripping the desk at the feeling. You pull away a little and lick all the way from up from the base, flattening your tongue against his veins, before taking his cock into your mouth.

You go down on him slowly, so slowly, and the feeling of your warm mouth enveloping his length makes John groan. His eyes want to fall shut but he forces himself to watch your pretty lips stretch around his cock. It’s worth it, especially when you flick your eyes up to look at him. The sight of you makes his hips jerk involuntarily and you gag, pulling backwards with a wet pop that sends another wave of arousal coursing through John.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, reaching out a hand to brush away the tears that have welled up in your eyes, but you shake your head. Wordlessly, you guide both of his hands into your hair and go down on him again—and when you take in as much of his cock as you can, you look up to John as if waiting for something. 

When he understands, he finally lets himself close his eyes. 

“God, you’re so good for me, aren’t you?” John pulls out of your mouth a little before sliding back in, gasping at the warmth. “Taking your professor's cock like this. Mm, fuck—you feel so good.”

John increases his pace, starting to really fuck into your mouth. His grip tightens in your hair and you whine. 

“What if Professor McCartney walked in right now, huh? I bet you’d keep sucking me off. Would you?”

The blush across your cheeks darkens and John takes note of it, something piping up in the back of his mind. But then you’re moaning around his cock and the vibrations are making his knees weak. He’s gonna come, soon, and his words devolve into grunts and curses as his hips jerk faster and faster into your mouth. Your throat has got to be tired by now but you’re not stopping or pulling away. The thought that you actually enjoy this, that it’s turning you on to be on your knees for John, is what sends him over the edge.

You let him finish in your mouth, swallowing all of it—or at least, as much as you can. Still, a little bit of John’s cum makes its way down your bottom lip. Before he can second-guess himself, he pulls you up to your feet and kisses you. It’s soft, a distinct contrast to the fervor with which John had just been fucking your mouth with, and a little bitter with the taste of his own cum on his tongue. You whine when he swipes a tongue across your lip and the sound turns into a high pitched moan when he bites down where he just licked. 

“Professor-”

“Call me John,” he says, pulling away and seeing a shy smile cross your face.

“Okay,” you say. You close the gap between your lips and kiss him again. “John.”

Just to make sure, though, John has you scream it for him when it’s his turn to get on his knees.

* * *

THERE IS NOW A PART TWO  🥪🥪🥪

[castielslostwings]

Winter Storm Warning

an under 4k deancas ficlet, just something i was thinking about when I saw Frank stealing coins from one of the Chicago fountains on “Shameless.” 

4k, rated G, homeless Cas/Sandover Dean, sweet Dean, meet-ugly (sort of). “Winter Storm Warning” The frigid air is biting, searing into the exposed skin of Dean’s face as he walks brusquely down the snow-dusted sidewalks of downtown Chicago. The unforgiving Illinois cold is rough, close to unbearable, but for Dean, it also spells freedom. Ten hours straight of mind-numbing meetings with a fake smile plastered across his face, crunching numbers and negotiating the supposed merger of a lifetime—that’s his job and don’t get him wrong, Dean is great at it, but enough is enough. Out here, the distinct lack of fluorescent lighting, pretentious leather seating, and endless glasses of cucumber water signifies that, at the very least, that mess is over and Dean is free.  Tomorrow morning, if the weather allows for it, Dean will be on a plane back to Kansas where the weather probably sucks just as much but at least the air can’t cut you like a damn knife. A blast of wind makes him flinch, trying to shove the hand not wrapped around his briefcase handle even further into his pocket. At least Sandover paid for all of his expenses this trip, important as it was, and soon, Dean will be sitting pretty in his seventy-five degree suite, some takeout and a sampler selection from the minibar laid out in front of him.  Several feet away in the slush-filled street a plow goes by, metal scraping against concrete, a heaping helping of snow tossed carelessly well over the top of the existing hip-high bank and onto Dean’s head. “Oh, come on,” he yells, waving his briefcase in frustration at the plow’s taillights, the snow slithering wetly down the back of his neck and underneath his starched collar. “Fuck,” Dean curses, trying and failing to scoop the slushy mess out of the back of his shirt and fling it down onto the street where it belongs. He shivers violently as a trail of ice goes creeping down into the hollow of his lower back, far past his reach, unless he wants to untuck three layers and flail around some more in the middle of the damn sidewalk.  What a day.  Thankfully, the Sheraton where he’s staying is only a few blocks away from the corporate offices he’s been holed up in all day, which is why Dean decided to walk to begin with. Well, that, and the fact that the mounting winter weather and the state of the streets wouldn’t have made UBERing any faster. With the melting snow now trickling into his butt crack but the air fresh and clean despite being painfully cold, he can’t actually decide whether he regrets the decision or not.  As Dean approaches the riverfront and where the street forks, he should take a right to walk down to his hotel. But the sun is out, despite the snow falling, and regardless of the unrelenting cold, it does feel good to be outside. So after a moment’s hesitation, Dean changes course and walks straight. He heads down towards the River Esplanade Park where he knows from looking out his hotel room window that there are gorgeous views of the river and Centennial Fountain still runs, even in the dead of winter. As he walks, his breath puffs white, delicate clouds drifting off into the air in front of him and Dean can almost see the moisture crystallizing, turning to ice right before his eyes.  It’s really fucking cold.  Centennial Fountain almost looks as if it was carved out of the stone walkway around it. Like God took his melon baller and just scooped it right on out. As Dean approaches, he walks down the steps framing the space above the wall of running water, intending to turn and follow the path along the river until he gets to his hotel. It’ll be a nice walk, scenic, with the sun glinting off of the grey-ish water that lazes by far below. Dean takes a moment to pause at the iron railing, looking out and sucking in a deep breath of impossibly cold air, relishing the way it stings his lungs before he blows it back out.  His peaceful reverie is interrupted by what sounds like a pained moan, and at first, Dean wonders if there’s a hurt animal nearby. He whirls around to face the fountain and looks over the steps leading down to it. The water is flowing the way it usually is, cascading down the far wall in gorgeous, icy waves before pooling in the shallow basin below and freezing solid at its edges.  All of that is relevant only because there is a man standing in the undoubtedly arctic-cold water. His dirty khakis are rolled up to his knees, shoes and socks lined up neatly on the last step leading down to the water on Dean’s side. Next to the articles of clothing is a small backpack, and beside that is a gallon-sized ziplock bag. From where Dean is standing, it looks as if the plastic bag is filled with change.  At first, Dean can’t make sense of it, thinks the guy must be some sort of head case, because who in their right mind would even consider wading into a fountain in Chicago in weather like this? But as Dean stares, taking in the ratty beanie pulled down over the man’s reddened ears, the too-thin coat with a sweatshirt stuffed uncomfortably tight underneath, his bright-red, ungloved hands and forearms, he suddenly understands, and he’s horrified. The man’s abused limbs shake violently as he bends down to plunge them into the water once again, moaning but persisting on when they make contact.  Even from afar, his own hands swathed in expensive, lined leather gloves that preserve his own body heat, Dean cringes, but he can’t look away. The man drags his hands back out and, dripping wet, they’re full of coins. He staggers unsteadily back to the edge of the water, and it’s obvious to Dean that it’s becoming painful for him to walk. It won’t be long before he loses feeling completely, if he hasn’t already. When he turns, Dean catches a glimpse of his face. He’s young. Dean’s age, maybe a couple of years older. That, or the streets have taken their toll. Not much of one, though, Dean has to admit. The man’s face and skin don’t look weathered or damaged by drugs or alcohol, the way so many folks on the street seem to look after even the shortest time enduring that existence. His facial scruff is decently kept, untinged with any sickly yellow. He’s handsome, Dean can already tell, and when the man glances up and makes eye contact, Dean’s destroyed.  “Wow,” he murmurs under his breath before shaking himself off and back to the reality of his current predicament. Or rather, the man’s current predicament. “Hey!” he calls out, but the man has already turned, is already trudging back towards the middle of the fountain. “Hey, man, get out of there!” The man ignores him, plunging his hands back into the water to scoop out another handful of coins. Dean skips down the steps, nearly wiping out on a patch of ice in his haste, and meets him at the edge of the water when he arrives back to secure his haul.  The man looks up at him warily, gorgeous blue eyes darting between Dean and his bag of coins with open distrust. His fingers are purplish-red now and Dean can tell just from looking that the guy can barely move them. He struggles to get the edges of the ziplock bag open without losing his coins, so Dean steps forward, trying to help.  The guy flinches, and Dean backs up immediately, hands in the air. “Whoa,” he says gently, “Hey, it’s okay, man. Just trying to help.”  “Please,” the man starts, but his voice breaks, from cold or fear or pain, really, it’s anyone’s guess as far as Dean is concerned. When Dean doesn’t move, he licks his blue-tinged lips and tries again. “P-please don’t t-take m-my coins,” he pleads softly, eyes downcast.  “Oh, shit,” Dean breathes, torn between backing up and stepping forward. “No way, man. Listen, I promise, I just wanna help. Here,” he encourages, carefully stepping forward and pulling the ziplock open with just the tips of his fingers, barely touching it. With any luck, the man will understand that Dean can’t pick up the bag that way, that he isn’t trying to make off with it. He seems to, if his wary glance at Dean’s face is any indication, sniffling as he sloshes forward, shins nudging against the ice where it’s collecting on the water’s surface. The man doesn’t even seem to notice what’s going on with his legs as his stiff hands fight to dump the latest handful of coins into the collection bag.  “Dude,” Dean says incredulously when the man shifts as if he intends to wade back into the deeper water. “You can’t go out there again. You gotta get out of that frozen death trap, get your shoes on, get somewhere warm and fast or you’re gonna lose those toes. Fingers too.”  The guy pauses, drags his tattered sleeve across his reddened nose and sniffles again, shaking his head in dismay. “Can’t,” he says roughly, and Dean wonders if his voice is naturally that low, or if that’s a function of the cold too. Jesus Christ, this poor sap. “Too cold to stop. I…” He trails off and reaches down to jiggle the ziplock as best he can with the clumsy fingers of one near-useless hand. “Almost have enough for a motel.”  Now, it’s important to note at this point that Dean Winchester is not the most careful guy. Casual sex with nearly anyone (and any gender) who will have him, drinking too much in unfamiliar bars, gambling with unsavory characters, all of those things are plenty familiar to him, par for the course, really. Life is a game of chance, a series of thrill rides, and Dean is more than willing to roll the dice on various risks to get to the rewards. But while he’s a risk-taker, a gambler, a man who, in general, is not afraid of much, he’s also not stupid. As such, why he does what he chooses to do next, is beyond even Dean’s own comprehension.  “I’ve got a room,” he says impulsively, rushed, just blurting it out like this is a normal thing to say to a complete stranger. “Right there.” He points at the Sheraton, its soaring frame towering over them from less than a quarter of a mile away. “It’s warm, there’s food… alcohol, warm shower. C’mon man, what do you say?”  The man narrows his eyes and backs up a step, out of Dean’s reach. “I am not a prostitute,” he says coldly, tone as frigid as the air. Horrified, Dean recoils immediately. “Oh—God, no. You thought…? No, Jesus, man. Listen, first of all, I got a strict rule to never pay for it and—okay, do you think you could at least get out of the water before we continue this conversation? I feel like I’m watching you freeze to death in front of me.”  The man looks down at his feet in surprise, as if he’s forgotten they were there, forgotten that he’s standing in water that’s only still liquid because it’s being agitated and moved through pipes that are probably heated just below the ground, warmed up just enough to keep the water from turning to ice. “Oh,” is all he says, casting a regretful look over his shoulder at the deepest part of the fountain. “Dude,” Dean continues, starting to become exasperated, but also not willing to become an accessory to suicide, which if the guy doesn’t get warm soon, is exactly what this is going to turn into. “Get out. I’ll give you money, seriously. It’s no trouble. If you don’t wanna hang out with me, that’s cool, I get it. Let me help you out, no one fucking deserves this. For fuck’s sake, you’re a person and this is dehumanizing, never mind that it looks painful as hell.”  Something in that word-vomit mess must include the magic words, because Fountain-guy sighs reluctantly and shuffles back toward the edge of the pool. “It is,” the man agrees, raising one naked leg to step up and out of the water, but slipping and nearly toppling into the fountain wholesale as he tries to bear the weight needed to pull himself up.  “Shit,” Dean curses, darting forward to catch him as he falls, wrapping arms around the guy’s waist and dragging him the rest of the way out of the water, onto equally freezing cold cement. “Alright,” he says. “You’re alright.” Without thinking too much about it, Dean settles the man on the steps before pulling off his own jacket, a heavy peacoat that his brother Sam gave him for Christmas a few years ago. He kneels down, cold from the stone soaking through the knees of his expensive suit almost immediately, though Dean ignores that in favor of focusing on wrapping the body-warmed jacket around the guy’s feet. “Get your hands inside your sleeves if you can,” Dean instructs gruffly. When the man’s feet are bundled together, Dean looks up to see the guy struggling—he can’t move his fingers at all anymore. With another muffled curse, Dean tugs the guy’s sleeves down and folds each of his stiff, freezing cold hands into the opposite sleeve. “Just…” Dean looks around, suddenly freezing himself, now that his coat is otherwise occupied, and he wasn’t exactly warm to begin with. He scratches the back of his head in frustration. “Man, I’m not gonna hurt you. Will you please come with me, let me help? You look like you could use a break, buddy. I’m trying to give you a break, nothing else.”  From his kneeling perch down on the frozen stone, Dean sits back on his heels to look up into the man’s curious blue eyes imploringly. To his surprise, the man nods. “Alright,” he agrees, still skeptical, still reluctant, but the tightness in Dean’s chest loosens with relief.  “Alright,” Dean echoes, retrieving the man’s socks and shoes before peeling back his jacket-blanket to shove them back on as quickly as possible. He can’t help but notice what poor quality they are—that kind of footwear probably wasn’t doing much to keep him warm prior to the dip in the fountain, and it’s not going to do much to warm him up now. But sitting out here in the cold isn’t going to help him or Dean, either, so Dean’s just going to have to work with what they have. He pauses before continuing, remembering the man’s reaction to him touching the money before. “I’m just going to put your coins in your backpack, okay? Is that alright?” Dean looks the man in the eye and waits for permission before proceeding. “Thank you,” the man says cautiously, watching like a hawk as Dean unzips the bigger pocket and stuffs the pilfered change bag in next to some more ratty clothing. When Dean slings the bag over his own shoulder, though, the man’s eyes narrow and Dean sighs. “You can’t carry it,” he explains patiently. “I think we’re gonna be lucky if your ass can walk.”  Thankfully, (or Dean would have had to call an ambulance) the man is able to shuffle down the stone walkway, slowly, still struggling to put one foot in front of the other, even with Dean’s help. By the time they reach the gold-plated revolving doors of the Sheraton, the guy is outright limping while leaning heavily on Dean and Dean’s own teeth are chattering from the merciless wind slicing through his tailored suit jacket and cotton button-down.  The two of them draw their fair share of strange looks as they hobble across the lobby, from patrons and staff alike, but Dean is quick to wave off the concerned concierge when she approaches. He insists they’re fine, only to call her back a second later and ask for various items from room service, only wondering in retrospect why he’s so invested in helping this guy. He could dump him in one of the cushy chairs decorating the lobby; have the front desk call an ambulance, let someone else worry about him.  But something about the guy draws Dean in, makes him curious how someone gets that desperate, to be risking life and limb for a few dollars. And, if he’s being honest, he feels involved now. If he dumps the guy off and he heads right back to the fountain because he’s got nowhere else to go, won’t that sort of be on Dean’s head too? People don’t fall this far without a lot of other people being willing to look the other way as they go down, Dean knows that much.  It’s not something Dean likes to dwell on these days, but he grew up poor—the kind of poor that makes a box of mac and cheese mixed with water look gourmet. The kind of poor where you don’t even know that hot water is something most kids have in their houses and don’t just access at the local YMCA or during a stay at a better-than-average (for you) motel. The kind of poor that, despite the zeroes in Dean’s bank account these days, has him stashing the leftovers from the paid-for corporate lunch in his briefcase, just in case. Hunger. Cold. Fear of what tomorrow may bring—as reluctant as he may be to remember, Dean gets it, sees all of it in the resigned sadness of Blue-Eyes’ expression, in the defeated curve of the frown marring his otherwise very attractive face.  Dean blinks, turning his attention back to the concierge, who’s still waiting to take his requests. A heating pad, a first aid kid (because who knows what else this dude has been through), whatever the chef would recommend through room service, “go crazy, just make sure there’s a variety to choose from.” Since Dean’s been here over a week, the concierge must recognize him, verifying his room number before flouncing off to oblige without further intrusive questions. Dean makes a mental note to tip them well when he checks out.  As they wait for the elevator, the man eases off from where he’s been leaning heavily on Dean’s shoulder, sparing him a small smile and a muttered, “thank you,” when Dean reaches out again to ensure that he’s steady. He doesn’t speak again until they’re both shuffled into the elevator, the man leaning against the mirrored wall, turning his head up to the duct blowing warm air with obvious relief. As the door dings closed and Dean pushes the button for the top floor, he speaks. “I’m Cas,” he says softly. “And there’s a winter storm warning for tonight.”  “Hmm?” Dean looks up from where he’s been pulling off his gloves, stuffing them into his pants pocket when he realizes his peacoat is still slung over his arm, wet and dirty from Cas’ feet. “Oh, uh, nice to officially meet you, Cas,” he replies, slightly awkward. He clears his throat and gestures around the elevator. “So you thought a day with a winter storm warning on the horizon was a good time to take a dip in an outdoor pool?” Even Dean has to wince at his own weak attempt at humor, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head. He’s almost afraid to look at Cas’ reaction, but when he opens one eye, he finds the man staring back, amused. He is cute, Dean thinks reflexively, internally slapping himself for going there but unable to completely disregard the way the man’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s trying not to smile. As Dean watches, Cas brings his hands to his mouth and blows on them, rubbing one palm against the other with much-improved dexterity that makes Dean feel nothing but relief. The digits on his hands are still bright red and look very cold, but at least he’s able to move them. “No,” he says slowly, like Dean might be the idiot here, and hell, that’s possible. The corner of his lip quirks up. “Do you have any idea what it’s like on the streets of Chicago when there’s four feet of snow on the ground and four more to come? Risking hypothermia from the water would have been worth it to have a warm place to stay tonight and perhaps tomorrow. The shelters are overflowing, there is nowhere for a homeless man to go tonight. Trust that I would have been hypothermic and in danger no matter what I did.”  Dean can’t help it, he gapes a little. Those are the most words Cas has said since they met, though to be fair, a lot of their time together has been spent spent trying to get in out of the cold as quickly as possible. “Oh,” he replies lamely, feeling ashamed for thinking—even for a second—that Cas might have been stupid or that his situation wasn’t as dire as it clearly is.  The elevator dings their arrival and they make their way to Dean’s room, Cas still moving slow and stiff, his expression pinched whenever he has to put weight on his left foot. “Cas,” Dean ventures, not wanting to overstep but genuinely concerned about the guy. “Are you sure you don’t think a hospital might be—” “No,” Cas replies sharply, leaning against the hallway wall and shaking his head vehemently. “I can’t afford it nor do I care for the way the ER staff look at me when they find out I’m without a home.” The thick carpet and soft lighting mute what would otherwise have been quite a loud declaration, and Cas seems a little put out by that. He glares at Dean as if in challenge, but Dean just puts up his hands. “Your call.”  When they arrive at Dean’s door, both of them pause at the same time, catching each other’s eyes as if to say, well now what?  “Dean,” Cas starts, hesitating. “What exactly are we doing here? What—” he swallows. “What is it that you’re offering me?”  If it takes Dean a few extra moments to reply, a lingering several seconds of observing Cas’ face, so surprisingly open and hopeful, so sue him. “I don’t know yet,” he answers carefully and Cas almost looks concerned by that so he’s quick to add, “No expectations. I just… I thought maybe we could figure out what you need. A night in a warm room, some good food, some awesome company—if I do say so myself.” Dean winks and Cas cracks a smile, a real one that lights up his whole face. “Awesome,” Dean repeats, not entirely sure what he’s saying anymore and once again having to shake himself back to the present. “One thing at a time. Let’s make sure you aren’t gonna lose any fingers and toes, and we’ll go from there. Make it up as we go.”  When Dean slips his card into the reader, steps inside and holds the door open for Cas, the man is still smiling as he accepts Dean’s invitation and crosses the threshold. The door closes with a soft thud behind them.

***

I don’t have a taglist except for @ltleflrt, who maybe doesn’t even want to be tagged anymore 😂 , so if you’d liked to be tagged when if i post ficlets, please just comment and say so. :) this is not x-posted to AO3.

Also if you have a ficlet prompt you’d like me to write, please send it! My anons are on if you want to send that way, too.

[aurora-the-kunoichi]

Aftermath Part 3 - The Meeting

Sorry for the delay in the release of this next part. Mun has found herself lacking in motivation in writing. I hope you enjoy the next installment in my apocalyptic TMNT story. 

Raphael and Reader

Everything hurt; even your eyelids ached, throbbing red flashes of pain as you tried to peel them open to see where you were, this wasn’t normal. What was going on, why did…..oh….OH….it was coming back in vivid angry snaps of memory. You were fighting off those men on the roof, who came unannounced and dead set on bringing you back to someone, to break you? Those assholes almost had you too before those four giant turtle men came, distracting them. The red banded one’s face flashed before your eyes concerned etched in his features. He had tried to save your dumb ass as you stumbled back in shock. The rotted out opening in the roof, how could you have not been aware of your surroundings? You could hear your mother scolding you in the back of your mind. Idiot!

As the world came rushing back you heard voices, male voices, not good. The fear bubbling up from your gut hoped it wasn’t those men you had encountered on the roof, prayed in fact, which you hadn’t done in years.

“I think she’s coming around?”

“Dudes, you think she’s gonna freak?”

“Can you get back nutball? She’s gonna freak if she wakes up and your ugly mug is inches from her fucking face.”

“Raphael can you please watch your language. We have a guest.”

As the light pierced your vision green became the forefront. Once, twice you blinked as the green blurry masses came into focus. Crystal clear they became, large muscle bound shelled behemoths just a few feet from where you lay. In the back of your mind you had hoped they were a figment of your imagination as you tumbled to your doom, but the four very large, very real man turtles stood around you.

The tallest of the four seemed to be concerned the most, his brown eyes moving behind a tattered purple mask and a pair of tech goggles sat upon his green bald forehead. His upper body well-muscled was sans clothing except for suspenders littered with multicolored patches and an arm band which seemed to hold a working tablet. He had a pack on the back of his shell and a small solar panel perched on the top with a weird pole attached to its side, it looked electric? From what you could see of his lower half he was wearing black cargo pants that held an array of gadgets and unknown gizmos strapped to his narrow hips. His left arm despite green with scales was covered in several all black tattoos that went from his shoulder cap to his pointer finger. His right arm had a nasty looking scar around his bicep, the green scaled flesh faded to white scar tissue reaching from mid bicep to his armpit. By the looks of the damage he had nearly lost it.

The one next to him was the smallest of the bunch but did not lack in bulk, his eyes were a brilliant light blue outlined in orange fabric. The front of his plastron looked carved in intricate designs, scrolling from the top left to the bottom right, but to your trained eye you could see the designs were hiding a long deep gash that had to have been painful to endure. His whole right arm down to the middle of his open side was drenched in vivid pigment and abstract watercolors. Along with a brightly colored octopus on his left shoulder, tentacles running up towards his throat to around his collar bone. His lower half was covered with brown shorts and knee pads and what looked like homemade shoes for his massive feet. And hanging on each swaying hip were a pair of fucking nunchaku?! Nunchaku?

The third was the second shortest but by the way he held himself he was very important, maybe the leader?  His green crown was wrapped in blue silhouetting his vibrant ocean blue eyes, he definitely oozed control. The top of his plastron had the same intricate detailed carvings covering what looked like a jagged gash across his chest moving from the left to just past the middle of the boney plates. The difference in his carvings was the indents looked blackened, enhancing the artwork, making it pop. Across his broad chest sat what look like a holster, black leather with dark blue embroidering running the length of the strap. His lower half was covered by black pants with knee pads protecting his joints with a strap around his left thigh holding an array of blades.

The last was the brute, not quite the tallest but definitely the one who worked out the most. A red bandana covered his whole head draping down to cover the back of his thick neck. His biceps were bigger than your head with dense muscles shifting under the green flesh as he palmed a half eaten apple in his right fist. His plastron had the most carvings covering nearly all his front breast plates besides the lower left section. His wide hips held a belt that slung lazily holding a set of red sais. His bulky legs were covered in dark green camo pants tattered and worn from years of abuse. His feet also adorned specially made footwear because you had never seen such gigantic black boots in your life. You wondered who the shoemaker of the group was.

Slowly you braced your hands under your back and sat up eyeing each mutant warily.

“Careful now, you got a pretty nasty concussion when you fell. Take it nice and easy.” The tall purple one yelped reaching for you out of reflex. When you recoiled, his face fell into a deep frown and stepped back out of your personal space.

You didn’t feel like you were in danger but that didn’t mean that you weren’t. You’re first interaction with humans in 10 years had left a sour taste in your mouth. But these four weren’t really human, were they?

“Umm….did you set up your rig, it’s quite impressive?” the tall one asked obviously trying to break the tense moment between you all. “How did you get the engine to take the solar power?”

You were about to say something but the horror of it hit you, your truck and camper! How long had you been out? Someone could steal all your hard work! Then you’d be stuck here!

The one in blue must have sensed your inner panic and lifted his large green hands in a non threatening manner. “Hey, hey miss calm down. Your truck and camper are safe; it’s down here with us. After you fell and we dispatched Donovan’s men, we brought you and your vehicle down here where they can’t get to it. The reason Donnie is asking because he got to drive it and hasn’t stopped talking about your work for almost 3 hours.”

“Down here? Donnie? Where are we? Who are you? Why did you help me? Donovan’s men?”

“Whoa whoa whoa there, that’s a lot of questions.” The red one chuckled taking another healthy bite from the apple. “By the way, thanks for the apple.” He winked finishing the sweet flesh in one final crunch. “It’s been years since I’ve had one.”

“God damnit Raph.” The purple one moaned in frustration hold his head in his hands. When he lifted his face you could have sworn his green cheeks had a red tint to them. “I’m sorry miss; you are in the sewers below what used to be New York City. I’m Donatello aka Donnie. This one here..” he wrapped his arm around the small but bulky orange banded one pulling him closer. “Is Michelangelo and he’s the youngest of us all.”

“You can call me Mikey though.” Michelangelo winked reaching his hand out for a knuckle bump.

His large knuckles were massive and highly scarred, like he had lived a very hard life. Which from the looks of their battle worn bodies was true for all of them? Reluctantly you lifted your hand and completed the bump to his very apparent excitement. His blue eyes shone bright as he leaned further into Donatello gracing you with a large white smile that warmed your soul.

The blue one stepped forward and bowed slightly, “I am Leonardo, and I’m the eldest of my three brothers and the leader of our clan. The one who took an apple without permission is Raphael, my second in command and 2nd oldest. I apologize for his rudeness, but I must confess we all were a little excited seeing fresh fruit and vegetables. It’s been a while since we’ve seen, let alone consumed any. We live underground but Mikey had a garden set up on a roof top not too far from here, but it kept getting looted. Soon there was nothing left to regrow because seeds grew scarce and no left-over parts of the food to replant. It was a major disappointment to all of us. How have you managed to grow them after all this time?”

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed you rested on you cracked your neck and took a deep breath. “Ummm, my name is Y/N, yes I set up the rig, been working on it for years. I’m not from New York, let’s just say I’m from somewhere with a lot of land. I’m here scavenging for parts. My parents were preppers so when everything went down and I lost everyone, I had enough skill set to be able to survive.” And there it was, like an idiot with no filter you word vomited too much information to four complete strangers who were the first to be nice to you in ten years. “I have an extensive garden at home as well as live stock…..fuck.”

All four of them chuckled as you spewed word after word at an alarming rate. In fact they were surprised they could understand you at all with how fast you were talking. Donnie lowered his goggles and saw just how fast your heart rate was and the temp of your body rising rapidly. He began to worry if this was too much for you?

“You’re having a panic attack aren’t you? Are we too much for you or have you been alone all this time and not use to this much social interaction in one day?” he asked quickly stepping towards you still keeping an eye on the red flush drenching your cheeks.

Looking to your hands you saw them shaking and your lungs, Jesus Christ they felt like they were being squeezed from the inside. And let’s not talk about your heart, it felt like it was trying to hammer straight through your chest. Your fingers curled in your shirt clutching at your thumping breast. “Is that was this is? A panic attack? I feel like I’m dying…”

Soon you felt two hands, two very large hands on your shoulders holding you steady before you tumbled back from the bed you were perched upon. Golden green eyes and red flooded your vision and a musky scent of engine oil and leather invaded your senses.

Raphael was inches from your face, his massive body so close you could feel the heat radiating off his pebbled flesh. He smelled of masculinity and something rough, you could taste it on your tongue and it traveled to your belly warming it pleasantly. “Look at me, listen to my voice.” The rumble from his deep voice vibrated fluidly through the little space between you. Seeping into your pores and headed straight to the apex of your thighs. He smelled of trouble, the best kind of trouble.

“Deep breaths now, we ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

God he smelled good, you took slow deep pulls of his scent and found everything slowing down, your heart, your lungs and the whole damn room around you. All you could see was his face and the slow creeping smile that revealed his white teeth and the pink tip of his tongue bit between them.

“Do ya feel better now?”

Another hard swallow and you suddenly because aware your hand was now resting on the boney plates of his warm plastron. Why did it feel so comforting to touch him? Yep you were in trouble, so much trouble.

 All my works

@blossom-skies​

[zweiginator]

D’yer Mak’er

Brian May x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and your roommate Brian are losing sleep because of your neighbors’ loud sexual endeavors. What begins as a payback to annoy the couple ends in the eruption of years of tension, lust, and love.  (Prompt idea from @okqueenie ;) )

Word Count: 6,933 

Warnings: cuteness, pining, sexual tension, unprotected sex, oral, handjobs--VERY filthy oopsie (btw it’s late and im too lazy to proofread so sorry!) p.s sorry national geographic for defaming your brand :/

Your arm was tingling, your nerves needle-like, shooting through your bicep, then threading towards your elbow, down into your fingers which felt numb, prickly, and in pain. Your head rested upon your desk, your hair fanned out in front of you, covering your book--an awfully boring paperback of Hamlet that Brian, your roommate, so kindly let you borrow. You were groaning when your professor assigned the reading; Shakespeare’s language wasn’t one you spoke. So, Brian, being the sweetheart he is, shuffled to his room, his wool socks staticky against the wooden floors. He traced his elegant fingers along the spines of his books--all of them neatly arranged, from tallest to shortest. His fingers halted at a thin paperback, yellowed and dusty, with a cracked spine. He plucked it from the shelf and ran back into your room next door.

“Found it!” He tossed it to you, catching you off guard. The book fell open on the floor, a sepia dust bunny escaping from between the pages.

You picked it up apprehensively, holding it by the corner so dust wouldn’t latch onto your thick knit sweater. “Thanks?” You shook the book, jumping back as more dust fell from the copy, like a desert storm tumbling from sand pages. “But I already have a copy.” You cocked your head towards your desk, where a pristine, non-dusty copy sat, untouched.

“You don’t have Brian May’s copy though.” He grabbed the book from you, not caring about the particles that danced upon the sleeve of his blue zip-up hoodie. “Be ready to be amazed, Y/N.” He patted the spot next to him on your bed. Your comforter was piled into the corner, your sheets crinkled and cold from the winter air seeping through your window that never seemed to close completely. Instead, you sat on his leg, and he winced, his leg pulling away slightly.

“Your arse is cold as hell.” He looked up at you, his thumb marking the page he was going to show you--it must have been a good one.

“Shut up.” You motioned to the book, scooting yourself into a comfortable position which seemed to fare impossible; his leg was much too bony. “You know my ass is hot.” You wiggled a little, and he grabbed your waist reflexively, quickly turning to the page. He looked flustered, his eyebrows knitted together as he squinted at the text, the book tiny in his hands.

“See?” He ran a finger down the golden yellow page, tracing over countless translations and ideas he had written in the margins, some in smeared pencil, some in deep black ink.

You grabbed the book, squinting at the barely-legible handwriting that bordered the pages. “Too bad I can’t possibly decode what the hell this says.”

Brian rolled his eyes, his jaw tensing, just barely. “Forget about it, then.” He turned his nose up, yanking the book from you and softly pushing you off of him, getting up to return it to its rightful place in his own room.

“No!” You reached out, grabbing his leg and pulling him back to sit on the bed, but he slipped, and fell promptly on the floor, his tailbone smacking against the hardwood.

“Fuck!” He rubbed at his ass, wincing in pain, hissing at the ache that was climbing up his spine, tingly and sharp.

“I’m sorry, Brian!” You ruffled his hair, jumping up to get him an ice-pack, or really, a freezer-burned package of frozen vegetables which you and Brian would forever be too lazy to prepare. But instead, he grabbed your ankle, making you stumble to the ground like he did, catching yourself, your open palms tingling as they hit the floor. “Okay, I’m not sorry anymore.” You sat up, leaning against your bed like Brian was, grabbing the book from him and trying to read the margins. In reality, his handwriting wasn’t too difficult to decipher; you had known Brian for so long, it became second nature to read his chicken scratch. It was almost a test to see who was closest to Brian--it seemed only his bandmates and you could make out his convoluted lettering.

You shook your arm as you recalled the memory, lifting your head from its spot on the desk. Your ankles were crossed under the chair you were sitting at, and you realized Brian shoved a pillow between your back and the chair, which relieved some of the pain. Your neck hurt though, as it hung--almost lifelessly--for the entire night. You wiped some drool from your chin, grimacing at the gross sensation; it was semi-dry and crusted on your face. “Ew,” You sat up straight, your back cracking slightly as you maneuvered it. Brian’s copy of Hamlet was face down on the desk. You had actually been reading it pretty easily--thanks to Brian’s annotations--but you were exhausted from the antics of your neighbors.

For months now, you had been lacking sleep severely, waking up in the wee hours of the morning, your bed shaking from the arrhythmic banging of your neighbors’ headboard against the plastered walls. You always resorted to covering your head with your pillow, groaning and rolling your eyes and suppressing laughter at times--the couple’s moans were so fake and contrived. And every time they had sex--which was often--it seemed to get worse; more pornographic and less passionate--if that were possible, with the lack of chemistry these people seemed to have. There were plenty of times you had surrendered to your curiosity and held a cup against the wall, cringing as you heard screams that sounded more panicked than pleasured. Sometimes you would yelp as a firm, assured slapping noise would ping off of the walls, echoing in your ears even though they remained squished and completely covered by your pillows.

You had noticed Brian becoming more restless too; his eyes had become more sunken, his lips in a perpetual pout. Whenever he shaved, there was an uneven patch or two that he would forget to touch, and you would laugh at him, stroking your fingers over the thick, almost black hair, confused as to how he could have possibly missed it.

“Brian, come here.” You wiped your hands on your jeans as you chewed some buttered popcorn, your feet on the green coffee table, which didn’t match the design of the flat at all. You and a few friends were watching a soap opera, curled under Brian’s favorite knit blanket. You could tell he was mad you were using it, because he rose his eyebrows at you, cocking his head to the side as he sat next to you on the couch. There wasn’t much room for him, so he sat awkwardly on the edge, looking like a small child waiting for instructions of what to do next. You traced your fingers along his jaw, scratching at the dark stubble that was juxtaposed by the completely bare, hairless skin on the rest of his face. “You missed a spot.” Brian’s hand slapped yours away. “Just a smidge.” You tilted his head to the other side, seeing that the same spot on his right side was hairy as well.

“Stop!” He rolled his eyes, pinching your leg as he got up, pulling his hoodie over his head, mussing up his hair in the process. “I’m tired from rehearsals. Plus--” He shook his head, opting to leave his thoughts unsaid. He yanked his blanket off of your body, folding it neatly and tucking it under his willowy arm.

“What? Spit it out.” You and your friends looked at Brian inquisitively, all cocking your eyebrows at him, almost synchronized.

“The neighbors.” He mumbled, bending over the coffee table to straighten a book your foot had moved off-kilter. Brian’s body obscured the television, and you lightly pushed him back, your foot pressing against his hard stomach.

“Move,” You ate more popcorn, watching your program. “What about the neighbors?” You obviously knew what he was alluding to, but you wanted to see him flustered; you loved to tease him.

“You haven’t heard them, you know--” His voice faltered, falling a few decibels. “Doing it?”

“Oh God, Brian.” You giggled, a piece of popcorn falling onto your lap. “Grow up, man. ‘Doing it?’” You mocked him, and he tickled your foot, making you yelp, your head falling back as he scratched a nail on the underside of your sock-covered foot, knowing you were ticklish there. He grinned, canines exposed, his cheeks lifted. He took some popcorn from your bowl and walked into his room, giving you and your friends a quick wave before shutting the door softly behind him.

__

A few hours later, your legs were resting on Brian’s lap, your head laying against the arm of the couch. Brian was flipping through a National Geographic magazine, examining the wildlife pictures, like he always did when a new issue came out. You were reading Hamlet--still--but you were almost done, thanks to Brian, who happily analyzed the scenes for you, even insisting on pointing out some far-fetched allegories that made you second-guess trusting his far-fetched ideas.

“I don’t think that’s true, Brian.” You peered over your book and nudged his leg with your foot. Brian finished reading a particularly riveting line about the anemone in the Great Reef, holding a finger up until he was done reading.

“Hmm?” He bookmarked the magazine with an old receipt, throwing it on the coffee table.

“I don’t think that the costumes represent--” You started, before hearing a crashing noise next door--like metal pans clashing together, then falling twenty seven feet into jagged rocks. It was piercing and utterly startling, so your foot accidentally dug into Brian’s balls sharply.

“JESUS!” Brian tossed your legs off of his lap and held his groin, hissing in pain.

You hushed him, apologizing by stroking his hair a bit as you sat on your knees, leaning towards the noise. “What are they doing?” It sounded like they were in the kitchen; their apartment was a mirror image of yours, so everything was just a bit flipped around.

“I dunno.” Brian crossed his arms and picked his magazine back up, grumpy from lack of sleep and the dull pain stagnant in his balls. He picked a piece of lint from the page he was reading, flicking it onto your stomach, covered by his hoodie.

“I think they’re having sex in the kitchen this time.” You whispered for some reason, as if it were possible they could hear you. You braced your hand on Brian’s shoulder, the knobbed end of his collarbone hard against your touch.

“It’s weird to listen in on them.” Brian announced in monotone, flipping the page of his magazine, his eyes gleaming as he saw an article about space exploration. “Did you hear about thi-” Brian began to ask, before you interrupted him, which he registered as quite rude on your part, with a sharp inhale.

“Listen in on them?” You scoffed. “Bri, we haven’t slept for weeks because they’re fucking each other so loudly. We aren’t spying on them.” You shoved his shoulder a little, watching him as he nibbled at his lips as he attempted to focus on what he was reading. You could tell he was being stubborn, that he was curious like you, but he acted unfazed, shifting in his spot as his eyes scanned the glossy pages in front of him. Plus, he thought it was a little odd, listening to a middle-aged couple have sex with his roommate-slash-best friend.

You scooted your body closer to his, leaning forward to press your ear against the wall that the couch was leant against. Brian gulped and looked away, seeing your pajama shorts ride up a bit, the curve of your ass prominent from under the cotton fabric, lace trimming adorning the hem. He loved when you wore those, and he may have accidentally-on-purpose washed them extra frequently so they would shrink, just a bit. He moved the hair away from his eyes and tapped his fingers along the page he was reading--or attempting to read--before he shoved it in between the cushions and joined you, the peculiarity of the situation next door trumping his interest in space travels for the time being--no matter how pathetic that sounded to him.

The sides of your arms touched as you both listened, the sounds barely subdued by the layers of drywall in between you two--and the blood thumping, rushing towards your hot ears. It sounded like their sink had turned on in the process of their endeavors, and Brian, feeling cheeky, banged on the wall with a closed fist. “Turn off the bloody water! You’re wasting it!” He turned to you for approval, almost. You shoved him playfully and banged on the wall with him, cackling together as you heard the husband’s skin slapping. It was obscene and inappropriate, but you looked at Brian menacingly.

“OH ALLEN!” You moaned dramatically, coming up with an arbitrary name on the spot. It was completely fake-sounding, and Brian giggled, rocking on the couch to bang it against the wall repeatedly. You nodded at him, determined, doing the same thing that he was, rocking your bodies forward then backwards to push it against the wall forcefully. Your pinkies touched as your elbows did too, completely and utterly focused on annoying them just as much as they had you. Brian lifted his arms up and banged them against the wall again, his shirt riding up enough for you to see his stomach, toned and still tanned from a short-run of being a summer gardener--your idea to bring in more rent money. Your own stomach flipped and you turned away.

“PLEASE DON’T STOP AMANDA!” Brian moaned facetiously, pushing his knees into the back of the couch, his hips bucking forward dramatically. You looked at him questioningly, mouthing Amanda? Really?, as he smiled at you, his knuckles raw from beating on the wall.

And as suddenly as they began, the noises stopped. The pans halted their clanging, the grating sound of the metal fizzling, dissipating from your ears. You both sighed in relief, and Brian plopped down on his knees, taking a deep breath that ghosted just barely over your neck. You shivered, the aftershock of the odd situation making your breath hesitate as you also fell to your knees on the couch, the springs creaking as you both moved, unsure of what to say or do next.

Brian was panting, a coy smile on his lips. He was a bit sweaty, his neck was glistening, and his fingers fiddled with his silver necklace, the metal of the ring he was wearing clinking against the thin chain, the small tinkling pleasant in your ear after the horrible noises that had just stopped minutes before.

“Are you hungry?” Brian asked, pulling his legs out from under his butt, slipping his socks off. He saw you grimacing at him and clicked his tongue at you, his jaw twitching. “What? I’m sweaty.”

You feigned a gag as he held the sweaty socks in front of your nose, swinging them like a pendulum, soaked with body odor. “Gross!” You tried to smack them out of his hands, but he held them higher, just out of your reach to tease you. “Get your dirty socks out of my fucking face, or I swear to God--”

“You shouldn’t say that, Y/N!” He bit his lip and gasped dramatically as you tried to knock the socks out from in front of your face again. His voice was deeper than usual, and you grabbed his wrist as you fell forward; the couch cushions were unsteady. Brian fell backwards, his head hitting the arm of the couch opposite of you. His hair bounced, the ambient lighting shining against his brilliant curls. You had convinced him to embrace his natural hair, and it looked good on him, accentuating him, his look. Your thigh brushed against his crotch, and Brian hissed, sitting up quickly, shaking the curls from his eyes. “I’m going to get us some takeout. Chinese?” He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching as he stood up, the buttons of his shirt threatening to pop as he extended his long arms towards the humming ceiling fan.

“Yeah, sounds good.” You curled up on the couch, opening your book again, your eyes skimming the page, but not encoding a thing. You noticed Brian shifting his trousers, wincing as his hand brushed over the front of them. He grabbed his keys from the table, his magazine strategically placed in front of his groin as he said goodbye, waving at you, his keys tucked under three fingers.

“The usual?” He peeked his head through the door, his curls getting caught by a raw splinter of wood sticking out from the door frame. He pulled the strand from the sharp edge, waiting for your response.

“Yeah,” You nodded, tilting your head back to give him a grin. “But get extra white rice. You always forget.”

He began to shut the door, his large hand wrapped around the brass doorknob, shrouded by a dulled stain.

“Wait!” You jumped up, bracing yourself on the coffee table as you slipped. Brian flinched, lunging forward reflexively.

“You ok, sweets?” Brian lifted a brow, pulling fallen strands of his hair from his hoodie. You smiled at the nickname, standing up straight, adjusting your sweater that was becoming increasingly hot and heavy. You revealed a pen from behind your back, pulling Brian towards you by his hands which were warm, and very soft. You wondered if he had been using lotion more often--and then you coughed, registering the innuendo. You clicked the pen, poking your tongue out slightly as you wrote the note on his hand, underlining it twice, the scrape of the pen against his hand making a sharp white line appear, just momentarily.

“Don’t forget.” You looked up at him, noticing a faint droplet of sweat dripping down his neck, pooling into the hollow space where his collarbones protruded.

__

Your throat was dry when you woke up, and you didn’t know if it was because of your and Brian’s acting the day before, or the spicy kung pao chicken that Brian brought home in a greasy paper bag, beaming as he pulled out a giant takeout carton full of white rice, some of it spilling from the top. You swallowed, feeling a burn perfuse down your esophagus, wincing and coughing as you sat up. Your neck was still achey; your head automatically positioning itself in the position that allowed the least amount of sounds to pass through your ears--perks of having awful neighbors.

You pulled on a sweatshirt--one you stole from Brian’s room. It was red, and had that fresh, clean softness that proved it hadn’t been washed too many times. It was comforting; Brian’s scent pervaded the fabric, and you relished in the earthy, almost sweet smell of him, rubbing your hands together as you pulled your door open. You walked to the kitchen, where Brian’s guitar case was laid on the counter. You sighed, rolling your eyes. He knew you hated when he did that. You didn’t even have a reason for loathing it--you just did. Both you and Brian had little things that made you tic. The first time you ever heard Brian really yell was when you found out one of his--he despised disorganization. He was at a gig the year before, and the venue was a few hours away, so the boys slept in the van, half-drunk and a bit dizzy, weaned off of adrenaline highs. While he was gone, you rearranged all of his books. You flipped some so the pages faced forward, and kept some of the spines facing out. You took all of his pants from one drawer, and then all of his shirts from the other--then you switched them. You could have done more, but you didn’t hate Brian. So you fell asleep, curled into the corner of the couch to let Brian in more easily when he came home--he could never interpret how to work a key and a lock when he was drunk.

He wasn’t drunk when he returned, though. He opened the door discreetly, slipping through, taking his clogs off as he sat down, hunched over to be as quiet as possible. When he saw his bookshelf, he exploded.

“Y/N!” He slammed his duffle bag on the floor, his pins from all of the different cities he’d visited scratching against a raised floorboard. You jumped up, patting your hair down as you turned the floor lamp on, the warm light ambient and mellow.

“Brian? You’re home already?” You glanced at the clock; it was seven in the morning, so it made sense for him to be back.

“It’s seven.” He confirmed. “Can you explain this?” He crossed his arms over his chest, his forearms were veiny, bulging from his sleeves; one was pulled all of the way down, one was rolled up halfway.

You laughed softly. “The books? I just thought it would annoy you.”

His eyes hardened, and his jaw protruded as he sucked his bottom lip, before releasing it with a pronounced pop. “It worked. Don’t you have better shit to do than mess with my personal fucking belongings?”

You scowled, stepping closer to him. For the first time since you had met him, his tall frame wasn’t languid--it was intimidating. The shadow of a beard was forming on his cheeks, pebbling down his elegant neck, where two necklaces were layered, resting on his collarbones. “It’s not a big fucking deal, Brian.” You turned around to leave, but he grabbed your wrist, holding onto it so hard he could feel your pulse racing.

“Fix it.” He looked at you sternly, his eyes glaring into your own. You expected him to laugh and ruffle your hair a bit, but he didn’t. He just stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door; you heard the shower faucet creak a minute later. Your legs shook as you bent down to fix the books, trying to ignore the warmth pooling at your core.

_

You were reaching into a cupboard, trying to find a glass for some water, when you heard crashing in the bathroom and the shrieking of the shower curtain rings scraping at the curtain rod.

“Y/N!” Brian yelled, almost hopelessly.

“Hmm!” You scurried to the bathroom door, pressing your ear against it. You could faintly feel the warmth emanating from underneath the door.

“I forgot to bring a towel in with me. Can you get me one?” You could hear him gathering the fallen shampoo bottles and setting them on the ledge.

“What do you say?” You challenged.

“Please, would you so kindly fetch me a towel, Y/N?” He pleaded, half sarcastically.

You got him one, wiggling the doorknob to the bathroom as you held it underneath your arm. “Open up, Bri!”

He quickly unlocked the door, peering through the crack, reaching a soaked hand out. His wrist was dripping with steamy water, his arm a lot more defined than you remembered it being in the summer. He pulled the towel from your hands, quickly turning around so he could wrap it around his waist. You saw his ass for a split second, and you attempted to stifle your laughter, to no avail.

Brian shut the door, re-locking it as he dried his hair and got dressed for class. He had a denim button up on, and black velvet trousers that hugged him nicely. His hair was still sopping wet as he left the bathroom, but he softly dried his locks with the towel; you told him to be gentle with his curls.

You were biting your lip, trying to suppress the laughter which was bubbling up into your throat and quickly threatening to spill over. Brian looked at you, knowing that meant you were about to make fun of him for something.

“What is it? Lay it on me.” He sat down, resuming his reading of his National Geographic, his eyes roaming the pages quickly. He turned the magazine sideways, squinting at a picture of the stars that filled the entire two-page spread.

“Your butt.” You sat down next to him, poking at his ass as he attempted to focus on his reading.

“You saw my arse? Big deal.” He feigned to be uncaring, but you could see his cheeks flushing into a scarlet that seeped down his neck.

“It was small! Your butt is tiny.” You tickled at his hips, and he flinched, his teeth protruding from underneath his pink lips, forming the beginnings of a smile. “Tiny butt.” Brian rolled his eyes, turning his head to face you. He closed his magazine and crossed his arms, resting his legs on the coffee table.

“So what if I have a tiny butt--hey! That rhymed!” He realized, leaning his head on the cushion behind him.

You heard a crashing sound--the unfortunately familiar sound of clashing pans crossing your threshold, even between Brian’s Led Zeppelin vinyl and two--albeit thin--walls. “They’re fucking at it again!”

You both groaned, following the sounds like a labyrinth of awful moans and grunts swirling into one epicenter. “Wait.” Brian halted, holding his arm out, as a signal for you to stay still. “I think they’re in the shower.”

Sure enough, you heard their shower running, then panting, then the sound of someone’s body being slammed against the wall. “Ouch!” You looked at Brian, amazed. “That must’ve fucking hurt.” You leaned against the kitchen counter, Brian’s guitar leant against it; you smiled a bit, realizing he moved it off of the counter, knowing you hated when it was there.

The room was quiet, save for your and Brian’s breathing. The heel of your foot hit the wooden paneled column of the counter every once in awhile. You heard heavy panting, groans and whimpers from next door, and you and Brian just looked at each other, as if saying: Are we really gonna do this again? You both understood each other’s almost subliminal looks, and nodded simultaneously. You raced back to the couch, both of your socks making you slide against the floor, and you both braced your inevitable falls on the arms of the couch, climbing over them.

Brian held up three long fingers, then two, then just one, before giving you a firm nod, eyebrows concentrated, solemn looking. “Oh FUCK! RIGHT THERE!” He knelt on the couch, scooting forwards and backwards to imitate the harsh banging noises they so often made next door.

“THAT FEELS SO GOOD! OH GOD!” You did the same as he was; you two were synchronized, breathing heavily as you began to grunt and whimper, Brian clapping his hands to simulate skin-slapping sounds, and you rose your eyebrows, giving him a thumbs up. Nice touch, you mouthed, and he bowed a little, his hair bouncing, messy from his movements.

The couple was relentless though, continuing their desperate, obviously bad, sex. Brian held a finger up, before stepping off of the couch and kneeling in front of it. He gripped the bottom of the furniture, his wrists flexing from the weight, pulling it forward and slamming it back against the wall--with you still sat on top of it. He continued to do this, the grunts coming organically from his lips, from the exertion. You were panting, your chest heaving quickly from the yelling, from the odd exhilaration you were feeling, from the wetness you were feeling in your pajama shorts, which Brian couldn’t help but notice were riding up your thighs; he could see the hem of your lace panties from his position underneath you, looking up.

“Fuck, you look so pretty like this, baby.” Brian moaned loudly, looking up at you. His mouth was hung open, hot breath fanning over your body. You returned the gaze, falling to sit on your feet in front of him, facing him.

“You’re fucking me so good!” You cried, cringing at the words, your mouth agape as you watched Brian’s forehead begin to sweat. Neither of you were laughing anymore. The air was dense, and tension-filled--wet almost. You sat down in front of where he was knelt, his hair matted a bit from the sweat, and still wet from his shower. You spread your legs, and your feet hung off of the couch, resting near either side of his head. He grabbed your ankle, looking at you with wide eyes as your fingers played with the elastic of your shorts, fiddling with the ties, the ends of them tickling at your inner thighs. Brian stared at the soft flesh of them, at a small freckle you had where the hem of your shorts laid. Your cheeks were flushing, your heart thundering in your chest, and Brian’s sweatshirt was becoming an actual sweat shirt. Your ankle was almost glowingly warm from Brian’s firm grip. His other hand grabbed your free ankle, which was noticeably colder, aching for his touch. His fingers began to ghost up your legs, inching up your shins, making you whimper softly from the anticipation of Brian to touch you more and more. His pupils were dilated and you noted how pretty his eyes looked, the yellow light shining into them. Brian was a beacon of allure, lust, love. You untied your shorts, watching as Brian’s eyes widened, his grip on you tightening, almost constricting, but in the best way possible. You pushed your hand down the shorts, slipping through your underwear to rub at your clit. You were soaked for him. Brian’s nails dug into your ankles as he pulled you forward on the couch, so his body was in between your legs, kneeling in front of you, on his knees. He ghosted a finger over your lips as you pushed a finger into your wet hole, gasping as you grazed against your clit. He breathed against your neck as he stroked your hair, kissing at your shoulder, his forehead resting upon it. He moved to kiss up the column of your neck. They were sloppy, open-mouthed kisses; he was desperate, rocking his cock against the couch as he held your waist, your fingers now deep in your pussy. You held his head, threading your fingers in his semi-dried curls, gasping as he sucked hickies on your collarbones, nibbling at the sensitive skin enough to make your hips jerk slightly. You pulled his head back by his hair, thick in your hand, kissing him on his bruised lips. He was fiery and passionate. He was making you dizzy, suffocating you from fresh air with passion-infused sucks to your bottom lip, his tongue massaging yours. Brian whined, his cock rubbing against the textured velvet of his trousers, leaking with precum, just for you. You pulled your fingers out, which were a bit pruned from the slickness which was staining the couch now, deepening the grey of the taut fabric. You held your fingers to his mouth, watching at his tongue swirled around your digits, sucking your juices from them.

“Taste me.” Your eyes were hooded, blown with desire. You felt like you were on the verge of fainting, or that you were experiencing a hypnagogic dream--like this was all altered from reality, not real. But the feelings--the sensations--you were experiencing in that moment, with your best friend’s tongue lapping up your wetness from your soaked fingers now coated with his saliva--were anything but a dream.

“So good.” He moaned, looking at you innocently. His chest was heaving as he grabbed your wrist, pulling your fingers from his mouth. He pulled at your shorts, his fingers shaky as he slid them down your legs, keeping your underwear on. “I love when you wear these fucking shorts, sweets.” He kissed your knee, scratching softly at your inner thighs, as you pulled at his hair. He threw the garment on the floor, scooting forward on his knees, yanking your underwear to the side. You gasped loudly at hearing his usually innocent nickname for you in such a dirty connotation. He ran his fingers up your neck before rubbing them along your soft lips, the calloused pads of his long fingers tickling the pink flesh barely. You sucked on his fingers this time, swirling your tongue around them, whimpering at how dirty this was, at how good it felt to feel Brian.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Brian’s fingers left your mouth, dripping with your spit. He trailed them up your leg, before pulling your legs over his shoulders, kissing at your inner thighs and softly biting the skin.

“Brian, oh my god.” Your hand grasped at his hair, desperate for his mouth to latch onto your clit--anywhere. He looked up at you, his eyes hooded, his nose nudging at your clit. His hand snaked around your waist, holding your hips down, his fingers splayed across your lower stomach. Then he began to lick at your folds, pointing his tongue and licking upwards, directly on your aching bundle of nerves. “Fuck, Bri!” Your heels dug into Brian’s upper back and he hummed in appreciation before sticking his tongue out and delving into your hole. You ground against his tongue, desperate for your orgasm, which proved to be approaching quickly.

“Cum on my tongue, honey.” He poked his tongue out, tilting his head to look at you. He was idle, and you realized quickly he was waiting on you to grind on his tongue. You did, holding his hair with one hand as the other grasped at the couch cushion. Your hips moved up and down repeatedly, his tongue sliding against your clit, the stimulation making your eyes water.

“Oh my god--” You were mewling, completely at his mercy. “Brian--your tongue feels so good.”

“Does it baby?” He batted his eyelashes, his curls tickling against your skin as you ground against his tongue faster.

“Fuck, it feels so good!” You screamed, your breaths becoming laborious as you came on his tongue, your wetness dripping down his chin. You had barely recovered from your orgasm before you pulled Brian’s mouth to yours, wrapping your legs around his waist, his body now hovering over yours, his knees resting on the edge of the couch. You scratched your nails at the nape of his neck, kissing at his stubble on his jaw. You both were starved--two years of friendship and a blindingly close proximity to each other in your entireties was being released by fervid kisses, frenzied touches. Your hands traveled down his chest, your fingers popping open a few buttons on the way to his cock, which was achingly hard and prominent in his trousers. You unbuttoned them, immediately shoving your hand down the front of his briefs, massaging at his balls.

“Fuuuck.” Brian let out a drawn-out moan, and it echoed across the room, making a tingle sprinkle down your shoulders and to your core. You dragged your nails softly up the shaft of his cock, and he buried his face in your neck, whimpering your name. Your hand held onto his hair as you pumped him, precum leaking onto the junction between your thumb and forefinger. “Jesus christ, more.” He whined, the couch hitting the wall forcefully as he thrusted into your hand.

“You’re so needy, Brian.” You pulled him forward. “Thrusting into my hand.” He nodded, a choked moan breathy against your lips.

“I need to fuck you, sweets.” He pushed his forehead against yours, digging his fingers into your hips. “I’ve needed to fuck you for so long.”

You exhaled, tightening your grip on his cock as he lazily thrust into your hand. “I need you so bad, Brian.” You pulled at his necklace, kissing him deeply. You felt his hips stutter, a low whimper tumbling from parted lips.

You shook your head. “Not yet.” Brian nodded, kissing your neck, just once, before he grabbed you by your waist, turning your body so your body laid across the couch, flat. He grabbed a throw pillow, putting it beneath your back. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him forward by your locked ankles. Your arms grabbed at the arm of the couch as Brian spit in his hand, stroking his cock--which you noticed was a lot larger than you originally thought. The tip was bright red, still leaking, his shaft veiny and impossibly thick. You shifted beneath him, your entire body sheathed in sweat and a scarlet blush.

“Condom?” He asked, his thumb running over his tip, massaging his slit carefully.

“I want you raw, Brian.”

“Jesus Christ.” He hitched your legs up onto his hips, dragging his cock against your folds, the ridges of his veins blissful against your clit. “You’re so fucking wet for me.” He dragged his hands up your torso, touching the fabric of his sweatshirt, damp from your sweat. His thumb and forefinger found the zipper, pulling it down agonizingly slow, groaning when he saw your bare chest revealed from underneath his hoodie. “Dirty girl.” He bit at his lips, and you sat up, shrugging the hoodie off. He pulled the sleeve back up over your shoulder, shaking his head. “No. I want you to keep my jumper on while I fuck you.” He held your chin as he said this, and you slipped his thumb into your mouth, making him twitch against your thigh.

Then he was thrusting into you--deep into you--his thumb stroking at your chin as his pelvic bone was flush against your inner thighs. You screamed, holding onto the arm of the couch as he pulled out, pushing himself back in immediately. “God, Brian it hurts.” He was stretching your walls, and your cheeks were blotched red from the dull pain--but it was a pain so akin to pleasure that you writhed underneath him, moaning.

“ ‘m sorry sweets. I’ll go slower baby.” He held onto your thighs, still wrapped around his waist.

“No. Fuck me.” You sat up, resting on your elbows as he obliged, Fucking into you at a brutal pace, his hand snaking up your torso, squeezing at your breasts. Your moans were breathy, hot, passionate--true. They were the antithesis of the sounds your neighbors were still making next door, opposite of the ones you and him were making seemingly seconds before. Brian was angling his hips up, thrusting deep inside of you as his thumb massaged your clit, savoring your noises, the way you arched into his every touch. Brian’s breaths were interwoven with impassioned moans, and the paradox of them sounding so angelic yet so sinful was making your orgasm near. He began to slow, his thrusts becoming erratic but far-in-between, his eyes rolling back as his voice cracked with a long groan. You began to fuck yourself on his dick, panting, the couch scooting loudly, creaking against the floor. Brian’s other hand trailed its way to your neck, his delicate fingers, wrapping around the hot skin, just touching. But you grabbed his wrist, tightening his grip around your neck, both yours and his moans becoming more primal and raw at the sensation.

“Brian--” You threw your head back, your legs unable to support themselves on Brian’s hips. He thrust harder, snapping his hips as he repeated your name, panting into the muggy air around you. A bead of sweat ran down his neck. His hair was wild from your pulling, his lips a deep pink from bruised kisses. Hickies adorned his collarbones, which his necklaces were bouncing upon with every yearning thrust. His hand was still wrapped tightly around your neck, pushing gently upon your throat, your hand gripping at his wrist.

“Good girl.” he gasped, as you clenched around him, involuntarily. “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna cum.” He tilted his head back, somehow pushing deeper inside of you; he was completely sheathed inside of you. “Fu-I’m cumming!” He announced, barely pulling out before he came inside of you, the feeling bringing on your own release as you screamed his name, your walls clenching. He spurt more of his cum inside of you, hissing at the overstimulation as he pulled out, watching his seed spill out of you. He didn’t know what to do; and in a panic, he grabbed his magazine placing it so the cum leaked onto it and not the perfectly good couch you had. You both were panting, but you furrowed your eyebrows. “Now your magazine has your cum all over it.”

“I know, I’m not too happy about it. That was a good issue.” He said from the kitchen, wetting a cloth to clean you up with. He sat down next to you, pulling his National Geographic from under your ass to wipe you clean. “It’s cold, sorry sweets.” You winced at the cool water, but his warm touch on your lower belly acted as a needed equilibrium.

He kissed your collarbone, and you pulled him in, locking your lips with him as he zipped your--his--hoodie up, pulling the hood over your hair and yanking at the strings. He pulled your panties up your legs, and then your shorts, before he slipped his briefs back on, laying on his stomach, in between your legs, which were still shaky. You pet at his hair and noticed how normal this felt--you and him together like this. Brian, reading your mind, lifted his head and kissed your nose, pulling the hood down.

“I’m in love with you.” He confessed, hugging you tighter, anticipating your response.

“Hi, I’m in love with you, nice to meet you.” You picked his hand up, shaking it firmly. “Funny, because I’m in love with you too!”  Brian laughed, muffled into your stomach as he kissed the fabric, his eyes fluttering shut.       

__

taglist:     @silencedleviathan @alexfayer @ledger-kaos @ma-ntequilla @discodeakky @richiethotzierz @thisloveisreal1 @heartsarecompatible @thelondondreamer5 @brian-may-brian-may @okqueenie @gailymlee @trickster-may @bubblypenguin123 @queensdarlingg @soloosunflower @dvndermifflinassociate @fredthelegend @miez-lakatz @arrowswithwifi @mouse507 @mespetitestortues @yourstateofdreaming @pamoreno @helenathe3rd @allie-of-asgard @deacytits @hystericallyqueen @missqueeniewrites @bulsarahutton @paper-queer-plane  @xilann  (message me if i forgot you/you want to be added!)     

[sillybitchhours]

Freak Show || kid!penny fic || Part 1/?

A young boy by the name of Penny was abandoned at a circus by his parents when he was just a toddler. Years pass and they put him in the freak show as Pennyworth the Dancing Clown. It’s Georgie’s birthday and the only thing he asked for is a trip to the circus. Bill and the losers agree to take Georgie, unaware of the new friend Georgie would find.

A young boy, skin as pale as porcelain, lay uncomfortably in a pile of hay, awoken from his restless sleep when the caravan hit a bump. He sat up, crawling on his hands and knees to peak out of a small crack in the wooden door. It was a cool autumn night, too dark to tell where they were headed. The boy sighed and hung his head as tears began to well up in his eyes. Before a sob could escape his lips he was knocked forwards, using his hands to break the fall. The boy looked up at the culprit and broke into a grin. “Simon!” He exclaimed with a giggle, reaching up to pet the two-headed goat. “Meh-eh!” Simon cried, to which the boy hushed. “Quiet, you’ll wake your brother!” He warned softly, referring to the limp head he named Billy. Simon just huffed. The boy shook his head with a soft chuckle, hugging the animal’s torso. “I’m glad I’m not alone anymore…” He murmured, nuzzling into the goat’s coarse hair. It whined and laid down in the hay. The boy rested his head on its belly, warming up from the shared body heat. The rocking of the caravan quickly put them both to sleep. Neither was awake to see the passing sign that read– “Welcome to Derry.”

“Man, fuck the circus!” A boy loudly exclaimed.

“Richie!” The other three shouted in unison.

“L-Language,” One warned, covering the youngest’s ears. “G-Georgie’s here.”

Richie huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Oh! So sorry, Buh- Buh- B-B-Billy boy!” Richie mocked, earning a sharp blow to the arm by the shortest boy. “Ow!”

“Can it, trashmouth.”

“Oh, you know I love it when you call me pet names, Eds!” Richie laughed, pinching Eddie’s cheeks, though they were quickly smacked away with a growl.

“Would you two get a room already?” Another added, not looking up from his birdwatching guide.

“Why? So you can join in on all the fun, Stanley?” Richie retorted, to which everyone groaned.

“You wish, Tozier.” Stan replied. The three teenagers bickered amongst themselves until the youngest boy began to shout.

“There it is! There it is! Look, Billy! There it is!” Georgie wailed, jumping up and down. In front of them was a huge banner that read, “Welcome to the Royal Big Top Circus!” It was embellished with two elephants on either side balancing on its hind legs, and a grinning clown in the center.

“Aw, screw that, they’ve got clowns.”  Richie said, turning on a heel to leave but was yanked back by the collar by Stanley.

“Oh no you don’t!” Stan said, shoving Richie forwards. “We promised Bill. You’re not backing out because of some stupid clown.”

“C-Come on, T-Tozier.” Bill stammered. “This is th-the only thing G-Georgie asked f-for his birth-birthday.” Richie gave an exaggerated moan, huffing deeply.

“Alright, alright, fine!” He gave in, raising a finger before he warned. “But I’m only doing this for Georgie. Got it?” The rest of the guys gave a nod, all except for Stan who simply shook his head. Bill smiled warmly as he watched his friend sneak up behind Georgie and scoop him up, squealing in delight. Georgie erupted into a fit of giggles as he was spun around. “Oi! What say we get some freshly popped corn kernels, eh?” Richie spoke in a thick English accent. Georgie nodded, taking Richie’s hand and dragged him the whole way there.

“Hey bucktooth!” A man called out, banging on the metal bars of the caravan. “Wake up, we’re in Derry!” The young boy sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You know, this here town used to be a beaver trappin’ camp. Maybe we oughta leave you behind so you can find your family!” The man laughed, not caring that the young boy was frowning. He threw an apple at the boy, hitting him in the head. “Get in costume, freak show starts in ten.” The boy sighed, picking up the apple from the bed of hay, examining it for any bruises. The goat anomaly jumped up, both heads crying out. With a sad smile, he offered each head a bite of the apple before eating what was left over. He gave both heads a pat, Simon first then Billy, before padding over to a big wooden crate that read “Pennyworth” in big, bold red letters. He dug through it, throwing all kinds of items left and right. Penny pulled out a mirror and took a long look at himself.

“Worthless…” He whispered with a deep frown as he began to paint on a cherry red smile.

“Come one, come all! See the weirdest show of all!” A man in a top hat and fancy moustache shouted into a megaphone. “See the famous bearded lady! A two headed goat! And watch a bucktoothed clown dance for a penny! That’s right, folks! Dances for a penny and one penny only! Step right up, folks! Welcome to the freak show!”

“The two-headed goat sounds cool,” Richie said, taking a lick of his vanilla cone.

“It’s probably fake,” Eddie replied, making a “gimme” gesture with this hand, silently asking Richie for the ice cream.

“Freak shows are cruel,” Stanley informed them, closing his birdwatching book for the first time all day. “They treat humans and animals like they’re some sort of sick joke. They starve them, beat them up - bottom line, I’m not going.”

“Aw, come on, Stan!” Richie cried. “I heard they have a chicken with no head that just runs around till it dies.”

“Jesus, Richie! Why would I want to see that!?” Before Richie could answer, they heard a familiar voice.

“I said dance, you fuckin’ freak!”

They turned their heads towards the voice, eyes going wide. It was Henry Bowers. “Welp!” Stanley clapped his hands together. “Looks like we should get going while we still have the chance!”

“W-Wait–” Bill held up a hand, watching what they were yelling at. Henry was throwing something into a cage, the rest of the boys laughing and shouting more slurs. “W-We need to stop th-them.”

“No, Bill! Just leave things be for once. It’s Georgie’s birthday, we’re supposed to be having fun!” Stan argued, gesturing over to the birthday boy, who was about ten feet away in the petting zoo. Bill sighed. “I guess you’re right.” There was a brief silence amongst the friends. It was broken when the youngest boy came running up to them.

“Billy! Billy!” Georgie exclaimed. “They have cotton candy! Can we get some!? Please?” Bill laughed, messing up his little brother’s hair lovingly. “S-Sure th-thing, Georgie. L-Let’s go.”

“Please stop! Please!” Penny pleaded with the teenagers. “You’re hurting me!”

“Not until you dance, faggot!” Henry mocked, throwing another rock at the clown, hitting him in the kneecap. Penny cried out in pain, holding onto his knee to ease the hard blow. Another boy took out a lighter with one hand, shaking a can of hairspray in the other.

“Better start soon, freak, before I burn ya to a crisp!” Patrick threatened, using the aerosol can as a makeshift flamethrower. Penny flinched in fear, backing up as far as he could from the flame. The teens kept shaking the bars and shouting at him. Penny finally began to dancing, kicking his legs out to either side, but his jig didn’t impress the boys.

“Come on boys, this freak isn’t worth it.” Henry decided, spitting in the cage.

“We’ll be back tomorrow, freak. Don’t think we’re letting you off the hook.” Patrick warned with an evil grin. “Hey, maybe we could steal your dad’s gun!”

“Are you kidding me? I’ll take it right in front of his face!” Henry laughed, high-fiving the other boys.

Penny broke down, sinking into a ball on the pile of hay. He let himself sob, his makeup melting off his face as he cried. He didn’t care if he got in trouble from the ringleader. Right now, Penny’s only fear was that of his life. He tucked his face into his knees, smearing makeup all over his costume. Suddenly a gentle voice startled him.

“Are you okay?”

“GEORGIE!” The boys continued to call out. “Wh-What the hell, R-Richie!? Y-You were supposed t-to be wa-watching him!” Bill shouted, jabbing his finger into his friend’s chest.

“Back off, Bill!” Richie shoved the boy back, throwing him off balance. “I only looked away for a second!”

“That still m-makes it your f-fault, ja-jackass!”

“He’s YOUR brother! Maybe YOU should’ve been watching him!” With that, Bill cocked an arm back to punch him, but was held back by Stan. Eddie did the same to Richie.

“Guys, guys! Pull yourselves together!” Eddie shouted as Richie shrugged him off. Bill paced to cool off. Richie was the first to break the silence.

“He was there one second and gone the next…” Richie explained, looking down as he scuffed his heel against the grass. “I handed him the cotton candy, and I went to put my change in my pocket and he was just… Fuck, I’m sorry Bill…”

“It-It’s okay, Richie.” Bill sighed, still pacing. “L-Let’s just focus o-on finding G-Georgie.” They all agreed and began to make a game plan.

Penny looked up to see a young boy, about his age, holding colorfully spun cotton candy. He sniffled, wiping his red nose on his sleeve.

“Why are you crying?” Georgie asked with sympathetic eyes.

“I- um….” Penny wasn’t ever asked questions like this before. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“What’s your name?” Georgie asked, head cocked to the side.

“Pennyworth…” The clown answered quietly, looking around cautiously.

“What a silly name!” Georgie laughed, taking a bite of his cotton candy.

Penny frowned at that, but politely continued the conversation. “What’s your name?”

“Georgie!” He spoke with a proud grin. “Why do they call you Pennyworth?”

“Because I’m only worth a penny…” He answered, flashing a sad smile. “I’m practically worthless….”

Georgie frowned. “Well, that isn’t very nice!” He paused, thinking of something better to call him. “How about Pennywise?” He exclaimed. “Because wise means smart! I learned that word from my older brother.”

Penny smiled at his new name. “I like that a lot better. Thank you, Georgie.” Pennywise smiled at the boy.

“You’re welcome!” The young boy grinned. “Why were you crying, Pennywise?” He pushed, concerned for his new friend.

“People are mean to me sometimes…” Pennywise explained with a shrug. He inched forwards, grabbing hold of the metal bars and pressed his forehead against them.

“How come?” Georgie asked innocently.

“They don’t like the way I look.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m different than them.”

“Why?”

“Because I just am!” Pennywise shouted, causing Georgie to flinch. Penny frowned. “I’m sorry, Georgie. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay, Pennywise!” Georgie said simply. “It’s my birthday today, so nothing can make me sad!” He explained to his new friend so he didn’t have to worry. Penny laughed at this, cheering up a little.

“Happy birthday, Georgie!” Pennywise chirped, holding up his pointer finger before scampering over to his chest. He dug around for a minute until he found what he was looking for. “What’s your favorite animal, Georgie?” The young clown asked, stretching a long red latex balloon. Georgie thought for a moment before answering.

“A monkey!” He exclaimed with a grin.

“A good choice!” Penny praised, blowing up a red balloon. The latex squeaked as he twisted and knotted the balloon with gloved hands. He blew up a yellow balloon and turned around for the finishing touches. When he decided it was perfect, Pennywise spun around. “Ta-da!” He beamed, presenting it to Georgie through the prison bars.

Georgie’s eyes lit up when his new friend presented him with a monkey holding a banana made entirely out of balloons. He took it from Penny’s hands, examining it with a gasp. “A red monkey! Red is my favorite color!”

“Mine too!” Pennywise chimed with a goofy grin. Georgie placed a hand over Penny’s gloved hand, which initially made him flinch. Once he realized he didn’t intend on hurting him, Pennywise followed in suit.

“Thank you, Pennywise. This is the best birthday gift ever!” Georgie exclaimed, hugging the balloon animal close to his chest.

“You’re welcome, Georgie.” Pennywise replied. He was confused by this fuzzy feeling in his gut. Penny opened his mouth to say something else but was cut off by shouts.

“GUYS, I FOUND GEORGIE!” Eddie called from a distance, running as fast as his legs could carry him. The rest of the boys followed behind. Eddie came to a halt in front of Georgie, hunched over as he struggled for breath. He frantically dug through his fanny pack for his inhaler.

“G-Georgie! Th-Thank God.” Bill spoke breathlessly, scooping his brother into his arms. “D-Don’t you ever wa-wander off ag-gain!”

“Yeah, Georgie. Your brother almost– OH MY GOD, A CLOWN!” Richie screamed, falling on his ass. “What the fuck! What the fuck! What the–”

Eddie slapped him across the face, successfully silencing him. “Beep beep, Richie!” Had it been anyone else, Richie would’ve slapped them right back. Richie looked away shamefully, holding his tingling cheek.

“Richie, you don’t have to be afraid!” Georgie explained. “This is my new friend, Pennywi–” When the boy turned to face his friend, the curtains of the caravan were drawn shut. Georgie frowned deeply, looking down at his balloon animal. “Pennywise…”

Bill smiled sadly, reaching out for his brother’s hand. “Come on, i-it’s getting la-late.” He said, to which Georgie sighed and took his hand. “Can we come back tomorrow? Please Billy?”

“W-We’ll have t-to ask mom a-and dad, but I-I don’t s-see wh-why not.” Georgie smiled hopefully, following Billy home with the rest of his friends.

“Thank you for taking me, Billy.” Georgie said, looking up at his big brother wish a kind smile.

“Of course, G-Georgie. It is y-your birthd-day after all.” Bill chuckled and led his brother home.

All the while, Pennywise was peaking out from behind the red suede curtains. Tears rolled down his pale cheeks as he choked back a sob. He wished he had someone who loved him as much as Billy loved Georgie. He wished he had a family to celebrate his birthday with. Hell, he didn’t even know when his real birthday was. He only knew the day he was abandoned at the circus by his parents. Penny just hoped Georgie would be back tomorrow.

[reallyagentyork]

alright, i set out to write something short and cute and it turned into 1475 words of norkington. somebody stop me.

this is for @fantail-faunes who requested norkington hug for pouty wash.

I’M SORRY I AM TRASH! I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO TITLE THIS! (i’ll happily take suggestions)

               Wash had not been having a very good day.

               To begin with, he missed breakfast for sleeping through his (several) alarms. He’s sure he’s still dehydrated from ‘team bonding activities’ (drinking games) last night and feels like he’s been hit by a train. And he has been hit by Carolina so many times that he stopped counting during a training matchup this morning, which he assumes is what being hit by a train feels like. And in said training matchup, he was used by his own team mates as a human shield during lockdown paint – which stings like a bitch. But the worst part…well, the worst part is the lovely black eye he’s sporting. Because it’s for the worst reason ever.

Of all time.

Trying to shake the feeling of being late, he had opted for a pre-matchup shower. Except apparently so did everyone else this morning, and they had all been in far earlier. The water was running regrettably cold by the time he tugged his clothes off and wadded them into the laundry bag wedged into his locker. For a highly advanced spaceship with a usually nearly limitless supply of heated water, it sure seemed to run out conveniently only when Wash needed a good soak, but a cold shower wasn’t exactly a new experience for him.

Slipping on the tile and kneeing himself in the eye, however, was an entirely new low.

Who gave themselves a black eye? Ugh.

Fortunately, no one had been around to witness the event or to see him examining the bruise as it formed, purple and red and blossoming across his freckled face with an obnoxious quickness. That was something, he supposed. He toweled his hair dry(ish) and latched his helmet in place before the rest of the team filtered in to the locker room, and no one questioned why he was already geared up. They followed suit and split as they were assigned, and aside from the complete ass-kicking Team Wash-North-Wyoming-CT received from Team Carolina-York-Maine-South, things were pretty routine.

He hangs around in the training room under the pretense of shaking off the stiffness of so much lockdown paint until everyone else had filed back into the showers. Maine gives him a good-natured punch to the arm and a head-tilt that seemed like an apology for their team essentially crushing Wash’s, the last one to leave the room besides him. Wash gives him a head nod in response and keeps throwing idle punches at nothing, stretching and taking his time in making his way towards the door.

People usually clear out fairly quickly from a post-training locker room, and the silence Wash is greeted with isn’t surprising, but it is welcome. Just as he starts peeling his undersuit down, he hears a familiar voice and scowls. He leaves his suit bunched around his waist and almost slams his face into his locker in annoyance.

“C’mon, Rookie, that was just…awful.”

York. Ugh.

“Give him a break. You know what that paint is like.”

At least North was there to temper York’s…Yorkness.

“Thanks, Dad,” York snorts.

Wash can practically hear North rolling his eyes as he huffs a laugh.

“It was pretty awful, though,” North concedes, light-heartedly.

Wash lets out a whine and scrunches his nose in a half-scowl as he turns around to face the pair, momentarily forgetting his recent facial addition. “Man, I’ve had the worst day and now I have to deal with you, too?”

“Jesus!” North exclaims, automatically jolting forward at the sight of Wash’s face. His fingertips nearly brush over the bruise before Wash instinctively knocks his hand away.

“Oh, yeah, forgot…” He huffs, scowl replaced by a pout.

“Who’s ass am I going to kick?” York jokes, stepping across the room towards them.

“Mine…” Wash groans, letting out another slight whine.

“Yours? You punched yourself?” York chuckles.

North’s palm finds Wash’s chin and tilts the shorter man’s face up to get a better look at him. His thumb brushes lightly over Wash’s cheek, carefully avoiding too much pressure on the purple blotches.

“I…fell.”

“Into someone’s fist?” York continues, tone still amused with the knowledge that Wash isn’t actually hurt.

“A knee.”

“How?” North questions further.

“Slipped.” Wash mumbles.

“How?” North repeats.

“I slipped in the shower and kneed myself in the face because I’m tired and hungover and I hurt.” Wash heaves an exasperated sigh as York shifts behind him.

“Dork,” York positively giggles, breath tickling the back of Wash’s neck.

“Doesn’t look like you broke anything.” North notes, and Wash gets lost in his eyes for a moment at the soft tone he’s dropped to.

He must continue talking, because Wash doesn’t respond until North pulls back and York clicks his tongue.

“Alright, Wash?” North speaks, a little louder and slipping back to his normal tone.

York backs up a bit, and Wash pouts even more deeply at the loss of all contact.

“Boys, hurry it up! It’s barbecue day at mess and I’m not listening to North’s bitching when you all miss it!” South’s disembodied voice cuts in from the doorway, and Wash snaps back to attention. “Quit your weird bro-bonding shit and let’s go!”

“Be a minute,” North laughs as York audibly gags at his sister’s comment.

Wash suspects that South knows, but if North isn’t concerned, then neither is he.

“Bro-bonding,” York sticks his tongue out in mock-offense. “Really.”

“Does she know?” Wash whispers curiously, a hint of anxiety curling in his stomach.

“Oh, she knows,” York confirms, looking terrifically unimpressed about it.

“Nothing to worry about,” North affirms, humming and leaning in towards Wash again.

“Bad day, you were saying?” York changes the subject back to the shortest of the three of them, crowding back into his space.

“Uh-huh,” Wash looks down. He’s new to this dynamic and sometimes he’s still shy. Especially now that he knows South knows. Now he’s even more unsure of himself.

North takes his hands in his own and places them against his chest. York presses up against his back and ghosts his lips along the shell of his ear and North pulls him flush to himself. Wash relaxes into the hug.

“S’okay.” North mutters, face pressing into Wash’s hair as he bends down a bit.

“Think I can kiss the pout off his pretty little freckled face?” York smirks.

He’s speaking to North, but the vibrations and his breath on Wash’s neck send shivers down his spine.

“You’ll have to get him away from me, first,” North says, uncharacteristically blunt with his flirtatiousness.

“You say that like Wash isn’t head over heels for me, babe.” York returns, equally flirtatiously, but also with his signature snarkiness. His hands snake downwards around Wash’s hips.

Wash groans, half annoyance and half arousal. Because York has always been a snarky bitch, but now he’s his snarky bitch.

“Can I, though?” York softens, mouthing at Wash’s neck more insistently.

Wash turns his face from North’s chest to grant York better access and their lips connect for a moment.

Wash doesn’t remember why he’s having a bad day anymore as York licks into his mouth and North’s hands start kneading at his back comfortingly.

York breaks for a moment to let North drop a peck to Wash’s lips as well, before he straightens and both of them take a step back.

“As lovely as this is,” North starts, and Wash definitely moans in frustration.

“We are in a public locker room, babe,” York reminds, flashing Wash a wink and a cheeky grin across his stupid face.

“It’s also barbecue day, as my sister so kindly pointed out, and she’s right. I will bitch if we don’t make it in time.”

Wash groans, but ultimately goes to finish peeling out of his undersuit.

“Brought you some fresh clothes, too,” North chuckles, as he and York head towards the exit.

“Gonna grab a few trays. My room in ten,” York finishes, blowing a kiss that is both overly dramatic and an attempt at being sweet simultaneously.

Wash rolls his eyes at the pair of them. He’s not sure what to call them yet, because this is new territory, but it’s nice. As he pulls on a pair of sweats that are drastically too long on him and a shirt he doesn’t recognize as his own, he snorts. The pants must be North’s, and judging by the holes worn into the soft, yellow fabric of a shirt emblazoned with fading letters that once read ‘Grifball’, the top must be York’s. Of course they would. He tugs a light hoodie over the shirt and rolls the sweats up at the waist a little and moves out. Hopefully his black eye will distract people more than the poorly fitting clothing.

Then again, he won’t be out and about much longer, if York’s request and North’s penchant for barbecue are anything to go by.

[futuregazed]

ORACLE

Sybll’s head slams down on the classroom’s tile floor as he falls from his seat, body going rigid, then spasming. His tattered sneakers kick at his chair, his desk, and the people around him scoot away on instinct, metal legs scraping, shuffling against the floor. The clock at the back of the class shifts to display 12:25 PM.

“Aw shit,” someone from the back echoes in the tense silence that follows.

“Language, Trevor.”

Brakes screeching, people screeching.

“Are we supposed to hold him down or something?”

A high, loud cry, one that rings over the rest of the crowd.

“No, you idiot he’ll just hurt himself more.”

Metal, silver or chrome, smudged with something dark.

“Does this mean we get to get outta class early?”

Sybll’s top teeth bite down on his bottom lip, splitting it. Blood runs down his chin, his neck. The students form a ring around him, more of a gawking exhibit than any form of protection. The boy’s service dog is absent, a bystander of high school bureaucracy. We’re getting all the paperwork done, Sybll, his parents had told him at the beginning of the week over the phone. You can get through the first couple days of high school without Sadie.

Talk about high expectations.

He wakes up, sore, in the nurse’s offices twenty minutes later. She hands him an ice pack for the knot on his head and a washcloth to rub the dried blood off his face. When she asks if he wants her to call his parents, if he wants to go home, Sybll shakes his head. There’s red crusted on the neck of his shirt, drying brown under the fluorescent lights. He leaves to go to 4th period and shrinks under the eyes of his classmates.

Time to check First epileptic seizure of high school off his milestone list.

The seizures themselves had become more bearable once he’d gotten Sadie. His parents, both psychologists, diagnosed the epilepsy early, when he was five or six, and twitched on the floor of their living room in front of the television. Dozens of tests and seven months later they gave him a dog, a Great Pyrenees named Sadie who’d been trained to detect when Sybll was about to have a seizure and either guide him down into it safely or get someone who could help him.

And she was good at her job – the number of bruised elbows and carpet-burned knees Syb had to deal with diminished exponentially in the first few weeks with Sadie, and even made the aftermath of coming out of a seizure easier, too. She was an anchor he could hug, hold onto when he was still weak and shaking and surrounded by the curious, scared eyes of his classmates.

That didn’t make the visions any easier to deal with.

The first one he can remember with clarity came in first grade, where he’d stiffened and dropped out of his chair, hitting his face on the corner of his table as he fell. Images flashed in his head, flipping by in jagged, halting movements, like from a movie projector that was broken, ready to eat up and burn through the rest of its film at any moment. A window. A bird. A blotch of red across the glass. He came to, crying on the floor, staring up at the rest of his classmates through blurred eyes. Once the teacher had calmed everyone down, Sybll at the front of the room in the comfy chair Ms. Wilkinson sat in for reading time, she’d tried to get class back on track. They were on five minutes into working on their cursive writing when a bird had hit the room’s only window, the loud crack of it startling some of the first graders into tears once more. Sybll’s gaze had been glued to the long smear of blood it had left behind, the only hint the bird had been there at all.

His high school is just down the street from his old middle school, so he follows the same path walking home at the end of the day, two miles down the road, past the K-12 Catholic Prep Academy that gets out at the same time he does.

“Still hanging around here, freak?” Sybll doesn’t even have to regard the group of older boys that stalk down from the front entrance, resigning himself with a sigh as he stops, waits for them to approach. One shoves at his shoulder. Another yanks on his backpack, hard, forcing him to stumble back. He’s learned the hard way that there are three types of kids that go to Catholic school: the ones that actually believe in Jesus, the ones that are forced to attend by their parents, and the ones that don’t actually give a shit about following any Christian tenets.

One guess what category these guys fell into.

“Find me another way home and I’ll gladly take it.”

They seem impressed by his retort, or more likely his bravery for letting it loose, and reward him with a volley of gum wrappers in his hair, saved in their trouser pockets all day for this certain moment. One of the younger boys, a freshman just like him, from the looks of it, opens up the waste side of his wooden pencil sharpener, lets a rain of shavings fall onto Sybll, running a rough hard through his curls, tangling them in there. They laugh, ugly and loud and spent, and jog down the steps to their parents, waiting at the road in expensive cars.

Sybll shakes his head. Wooden flakes flutter down to the pavement at his feet.

“You shouldn’t let them pick on you.” Davey bounds down the steps at the front of the school, gripping the straps of his backpack at his shoulders. His pressed shirt is crumpled where it comes untucked from his slacks, and his navy tie is crooked, has a smear of chalk towards the bottom, like he’d used it to wipe off an incorrect math problem from the board earlier in the day and hadn’t bothered to clean it off. “Giving in just makes them bolder.” He settles at Sybll’s right side, picking a few pieces of gum wrappers and pencil shavings from his hair, then peering over at the empty space on his left. “No Sadie?”

“No Sadie,” Sybll confirms, grimacing. His head still aches where he smacked it against the floor during 3rd period, and getting roughed up hadn’t helped it either. Under dark curls there must be a knot, comically large, perhaps on the scale of cartoon injuries, protruding from a character’s noggin after an unfortunate run-in with a misplaced anvil.

“Well, shit,” Davey sighs. A girl with long, dark plaits passing by to their left shoots him a dirty look that he ignores. “Anything happen today?”

“Nuh-uh. Not really.” Sybll’s tongue flickers out to taste the split in his lip. “Hoping the superintendent’ll let me Sadie to school next week, ‘case anything does.”

“They better,” Davey scoffs. “Isn’t it like, illegal to ask people for service dog documentation or whatever?”

“I guess it’s different for schools? ‘Sides, it’s not like I’m blind or anything.”

“Uh, yeah, but you could end up wigging out and biting off your tongue.” Davey mimes it, sticking his own tongue out, one hand guillotining in front of it.

“I guess.” Sybll smiles, barely, but there. “You walking home?”

“Nah, my mom is making me to go Bible Study at her friends’ house.” Davey clutches his stomach, like just the thought of it is making him nauseous. “And these kids really need it, too – they’re dumb as rocks. They can’t even remember the shortest bible verse.” He gives Sybll a side glance and tries to wink but ends up with both eyes closed for a moment. “It’s Jesus wept, by the way.”

Down the road a minivan honks, window rolled down as an immaculate blonde woman waves to Davey from the driver’s seat. He rolls his eyes. “My chariot has arrived.” Davey hugs Syb with one arm, still firm, and hops his way down the rest of the steps, climbing into the back of the van. From behind the window Davey waves at him, never pausing, even as they pull away from the curb and disappear around the corner.

The walk to his aunt’s house is only 10 minutes longer than the one to his, but Sybll knows that once October hits its stride the jaunt would become much less bearable, every footfall punctuated with stinging numbness, the kind that worked its way up through your bones and stayed there even after you got inside, got warmed up again, lightning strikes of cold. He rounds the corner of her neighborhood, crunching leaves underfoot, and takes the red paint-peeled steps of her front porch two at a time, toeing his shoes off at the doormat until WELCOME become WE       ME. Before crossing the threshold Sybll shakes his hair out again. Two more silver wrappers fall out, bouncing at his feet. Wooden flakes have turned to snow on his socks, and had they been reflective they could’ve passed as glitter.

“What have you seen, Sybll?” His aunt smooths down the thick hair on his forehead as they sit on the couch hours later, his curls bouncing back into his eyes as soon as her hands pass by. She and his mother look like twins despite the six year age difference – his aunt’s eyes are younger, kinder. Alice brushes aside an empty microwave meal container on the coffee table in front of them to prop her ankle up, leaning her cheek against Sybll’s head.

“I saw a car, or I heard it.” He shakes his head, scooting closer to her on the couch. Aunt Alice’s house always feels cozier than his own. Sybll tucks his head beneath her chin, glazed eyes looking past the television, through it. Gene Kelly dances on, unseen. “Slamming on the brakes, people are shouting.”

“Did you recognize any voices?” As a child, Sybll had confided about his visions to anyone that would listen, and most of the adults in his life indulged him for a while. His parents had thought his imagination was exceptionally vivid and his teachers had been impressed with the amount of detail he’d pour into his explanations, but as he grew older their tolerance had waned. You’re too old to be making up stories, Sybll. We don’t want to hear any more. Don’t bring this up again. The only person who had ever believed him, had scooped him up in her arms even after he’d hit his sixth grade growth spurt, had listened and had nodded along and had let him confess everything was his aunt.

“I used to get visions, too,” she told him one day after middle school when he’d just washed up and was helping dish out balls of peanut butter cookie dough onto stained, scratched baking sheets. Her tone of voice had been casual, like she was talking about the weather, or some book she’d just read and thought he might enjoy. “My father, your grandpa, had ‘em, too. I think we get ‘em generationally, have ‘em for a while, then grow out of it. Maybe your kids will have them, too. Maybe they’ll be able to see just as much as you can.”

Sybll closes his eyes. On the floor he can feel Sadie rest her chin on the top of his foot, heavy, warm. “Maybe one of them,” he says, shaking his head. “Everything is out of focus. Fuzzy. Like a bad VHS tape.”

“Aren’t you a little young to know about VHS?” Alice digs her fingers into Sybll’s side, soft, playful, and only relents when he gives a high bright laugh, one that breaks the hard look of concentration on his face. “And you’re too young to be so serious, Sybbie. If you keep scowling like that your face is gonna get stuck that way.” Alice demonstrates, pulling a strained expression, jowls tight and low, mouth set in a pained sort of grimace. It makes Sybll howl once more and she seems satisfied with the progress they’ve made tonight. She switches off the television sends him to the guest room, tells him to take Sadie out, then take a shower, then go to bed.

His parents call right before bedtime and say everything they’re supposed to. The conference is going well. They miss Sybll. They can’t wait to come home. Sybll half-mutters his answers back to them across the receiver. Alice’s landline is the only phone in the house, and it sits in the downstairs hallway, just around the corner from the living room, with a cord just short enough that Sybll can’t stay on the line with them and reach over to pet Sadie where she rests on her mound of blankets in the back of the room, closest to the door to the backyard. He presses his forehead against the doorjamb instead, stares at the slow rise and fall of his dog’s chest and repeats back to his parents that he loves them. His father says it back one more time before hanging up but his mother has already walked away from the phone and it goes unheard.

Sleep comes like a wet washcloth over his nose. Since he’d hit puberty normal dreams had become less regular, replaced by a deep, cloying sort of darkness that he swam through until the morning, or by a highlight reel of what he’d seen this week, pieces of images, noises repeated so many times they ceased to seem real, to belong to anything tangible, believable. Sybll hears brakes screeching against pavement he begins to imagine the car leaving behind images in its wake, skid mark art black across greyed asphalt. The car draws pencil sharpeners, and packs of gum, and a crude outline of Sadie. It traces the sharp planes of Sybll’s own face, framed by an unruly twist of dark hair. In the same stroke it outlines Davey’s face, smiling, smiling, winking. Amidst the chorus of tires, a voice rings out. A scream. Davey’s scream.

Davey’s scream.

Consciousness sits heavy in his chest and even after Sybll wakes, breathing hard in the stale air of the guest bedroom, he can’t move. His eyes dart across the ceiling, following a light crack in the plaster. In his chest, his ribs ache, and when he shoves blankets aside, jolts to the edge of the bed, they twist in his chest, agony.

He doesn’t stop to check the time but can tell it must be some time before seven as he yanks on his jeans from the day before, sun smudged grey across the sky, behind the clouds. From her sleeping spot in the corner Sadie lifts a head, concerned, and regards him with furrows.

“I don’t know how much time I have,” he explains to her, peeling off his sleep shirt and digging out a new one, pulling it on with such ferocity that he doesn’t realize it’s inside out. Sybll doesn’t pause outside his aunt’s door, doesn’t wish her a good day or wait to hear it back. He stays on the porch only long enough to pull on his shoes, too loose and perhaps on the wrong feet, before bounding down the steps, feet smacking the sidewalk hard enough to send an echo between the houses, shockingly clear when it reverberates back to him. Faster. Faster.

The line of cars on the other side of the street grows longer as he gets closer to the Academy and Sybll navigates around other pedestrians, catching uniform-clad boys and girls with his bony shoulders, going too fast to throw apologies behind him. His heart crawls up to his throat, beats there loud and solid. The front steps of the Academy filter into view from behind thick residential trees. Closer. Closer.

“Davey!” Sybll’s voice is hoarse as he calls out, thick with disuse. God! There he was! Just a few meters in front of him on the sidewalk, crowded against the rest of students waiting at the crosswalk, ready to pass over to the other side of the street. “Davey! Hey!”

He looks up the second time, and though it takes him a moment to find Sybll Davey still breaks out into a grin at the sight of him, unaware of what is to come, unaware of the tightness of Sybll’s chest, of the urgency burning in his limbs. Four strides away. Davey begins walking toward him, breaking apart from the rest of his peers. Three strides away. The other boy’s face begins to fall, eyes darkening, brows meeting. Two strides away. Sybll opens his mouth to call out once more. Stay there! Stay there! I’m saving you!

A hand catches the back collar of Sybll’s shirt, and only for a moment is he able to appreciate the irony of being clotheslined by his own clothes before it digs into his throat, choking him.

The same ugly laughter from the day before rings through his ears and though they must be on holy ground, or at least vaguely holy ground, Sybll finds himself cursing God for letting this happen. He’s swung around by the back of his shirt and the Catholic bullies jeer and jest as they yank him off-balance.

“You late for school, freak?”

“Watch where you’re fucking going!”

“The poor loser can’t even stand up on his own!”

“Quit it, you assholes!” He knows that voice. Davey. Davey. He doesn’t know when it’ll be too late to save him. He has to get away.

Sybll wrestles the hold off from the back of his shirt, blind and disoriented and shoving at all the hands and arms nearest him. He stumbles. He trips. He falls.

Sybll lands in the street, all the force on his side, his elbow, his hip. The world goes fuzzy and dim, bad VHS quality, and when he looks, hears the tires on the pavement, feels the pierce of Davey’s voice through the morning air, Sybll sees silver, silver, chrome.