#I NEED TO WRITE HIS LORE BUT HOW DO I WRITE LORE shaking choking self emote
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two posts in one day merry christmas ^-^
was adding things to slasher’s pinterest board and found an image i wanted to redraw with him so here it is :33 (og pic will be after the break if u want it :D)
i doodles him like yesterday and my friend said the style i did it in was comic-y and it made me smile a whole lot i love comics
I WANNA MAKE A COMIC WITH THIS FREAK SO BAD like one or two pages for now. and eventually…. longer comic :3 i just need IDEASSBHDWJBKSBDHKDSSB
anyway. pic!

#creepypasta#creepypasta fandom#creepypasta oc#creepypasta oc art#art#small artist#digital art#artists on tumblr#my artwork#can you guys tell my fav color is red#bc i feel like i always draw slasher with red LMAO#im wearing a red shirt rn actually#it has the fireball whisky logo on it#my mom got it for me for free :3#and we gave one to the very same friend mentioned in this post so we match hehe#I NEED TO WRITE HIS LORE BUT HOW DO I WRITE LORE shaking choking self emote#can you tell i do not write in lowercase ever#it was genuinely so hard LMAO give me my all caps handwriting back plz
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Power Over Me (Leviathan x GN!MC)
Leviathan x GN!MC as Lord of Shadow and Henry; MC is referred to as Henry but remains gender-neutral. I enjoy the TSL lore in Obey Me and wanted to write a bit for it. I initially had an alternate ending in mind, but I decided to save it for another idea I might write at some point. Tried to keep Levi in character while giving him and the story a slightly different feel since it takes place in a fantasy world. Also listened to Power Over Me by Dermot Kennedy on repeat while I wrote this so chose to title it accordingly. Hopefully, it turned out all right. Trigger warning for mentions of blood and self-deprecating thoughts. Mostly some angst with fluff. As always, sorry for the typos that I may have missed, and thank you to everyone who takes the time to read. I appreciate it!
Lightning illuminates the throne room, the Lord of Shadow watching the rain batter the windows, gaze sullen. A storm rages outside, mirroring the flood of emotion bursting forth to drown him in misery. Though he can only hold himself accountable, allowing his envy to fester and take possession of his heart in a moment of weakness. He regrets the letters he frantically wrote in his jealously, the heated words exchanged between you, and your pain forever engrained into the parchment, the ink smudged by your tears, which now lay in pieces at his feet. He considered to make the journey to you, begging for your forgiveness, but he knows he’s undeserving. Instead, he mourns the loss of your friendship, the loneliness left in its wake burning him from the inside out as he cries into his hands, his tortured sobs lost to the thunder roaring above.
The doors swing open, light spilling in from the hall. He recoils at the intrusion, anger welling and threatening to spill over, his patience worn thin. A growl dies in his throat, eyes widening at the vision before him, so beautiful and precious his entire being aches with longing. Slowly, he takes in the sight of you, engraving every detail into his memory. Your windswept hair and the raindrops trickling down your face, clinging to your lashes and following the curve of your lips as you smile sweetly at him, staggering into his arms.
“Henry,” he whispers into the nape of your neck, daring to embrace you and revel in the feel of your body against his; your skin cool and soft, and your scent rich, intoxicating him. He’s certain he’s not worthy of your compassion, yet he can’t bear to turn you away, selfishly clinging to you and delighting in the fact you lean into him, your arms winding around his waist to pull him closer. My Henry, he thinks, tightening his grip, afraid he’ll lose you again if he’s not careful. “I’m sorry. I’m so so—”
You grow limp, legs buckling under your weight.
Fear engulfs him, heart lurching as he supports you, catching your hand in his. “Henry?” he whimpers, noticing how your chest heaves with each breath, and the way your brows knit in discomfort, a low groan slipping past clenched teeth. “Henry! What’s wrong? Tell me, please.”
“I ran into a bit of trouble on the way here,” you manage, laughing pitifully. “I didn’t realize . . .” Your fingers fumble to unclasp your cloak, and he swallows thickly at way lay beneath. Blood soaks your blouse—a sickening shade of red—the fabric sticking to your back.
“You didn’t realize?” he cries, incredulous. “Henry—”
“I just wanted to see you.” Your voice wavers, head lolling to the side. He calls to you, shaking you by the shoulders, desperate to keep you beside him. However, your eyes close, grief overtaking him when they don’t reopen.
“You’ll be okay,” he reassures, robes billowing around his ankles as he rushes down the corridor, gently cradling you to him. Guilt plagues him, reminding him how pathetic he is, especially for hurting you and putting your life at risk; how could he act so recklessly. You’re the light to his darkness, breathing life into his world, and he can’t accept losing you—his happiness—your love dispelling the shadows that once consumed him. He never knew a truer friend, and he’s positive there’s no one else who could play such an important role—you’re irreplaceable. There’s plenty of time to atone for his sins, tonight he needs to make sure you live to see the morning.
“I’ll take care of you, Henry. I promise.”
Time comes to an agonizing standstill.
The Lord of Shadow remains at your side, hoping and praying you don’t succumb to your wounds. He watches you closely, frequently checking your pulse and finding comfort in the steady beat of your heart while you sleep, looking deceivingly peaceful in his bed. His focus is on you, never straying from his true friend’s wellbeing despite his inner turmoil, which threatens to tear him apart at the seams. You keep him together, and again he’s at your mercy, owing you his life for all you’ve given him—his hero—his Henry. He hurt you, but you came to him and offered him forgiveness, willing to sacrifice yourself to save your friendship. How can you care about him with such ferocity, a brooding reclusive lord who’s unworthy of his title? No matter the days spent apart, you return to him, accepting him into your life without hesitance, and he can’t help welcoming you back with open arms.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters. “I’m terrible. A worthless—”
“You’re not.”
For an excruciating second, he wonders if he imagined the glorious sound of your voice, and an anguished sob escapes him, tears clouding his vision. You stare up at him, eyes heavy with sleep, and a lazy smile on your lips. He’s dreaming, he reasons, shaking his head in disbelief. Then your hand is in his, familiar and warm; he shivers at your touch.
Gasping, he pulls away. “Y-you . . .”
“Forgive me,” you say, so understanding—so sweet—your kindness unfathomable. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“N-no,” he stammers, head spinning. “I’m sorry.” Tentatively, he reaches for your hand, fingers quivering as he entwines them with yours. “I’m sorry.” His tears come faster and harder, shamefully hot on his cheeks. He’s unable to articulate how sorry he is or how his very soul painfully throbs at the thought of hurting you—losing you—wishing he could turn back the clock. “For everything.”
You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay,” you soothe. “I’m sorry, too.” Sitting upright, the blanket bunches at your waist, and he can see where the bandages peek out from beneath your shirt, the skin bruised, making him wince. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“I’m the reason you’re hurt,” he chokes out, averting his gaze. “It’s the least I can do.”
“It’s not your fault.”
You’re wrong, he wants to say; however, he refrains.
“I don’t blame you,” you continue. “Look at me, please?”
He shouldn’t. Surely, he looks foolish, a mere hostage to his emotions. Nevertheless, he spares you a glance, wondering why you regard him so kindly—lovingly even—causing his heart to flutter.
“It’s not your fault.”
Not his fault? His mind tells him differently; it’s a sea of dread and uncertainty that washes over him in waves, dragging him under. The sincerity of your words is difficult to ignore, and, in that instance, he decides to trust you, finally breaking the surface. “Henry,” he murmurs, hugging you to him, arms wrapping around you protectively as if to shield you from the world. His tears wet your hair, body trembling, and you hold him, letting him come undone in your embrace.
“I wanted to see you,” you say, setting him alight. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering on your own.”
“Henry—”
“I know you’re struggling. It’s okay. I’m here.” You rub his back, resting your head on his chest. “I’ll always come when you call.”
“You’re the truest of friends, Henry. I fear I’m not worthy . . .”
“Of course, you are. I’ve never known a truer friend than you, my lord.”
“I can’t help worrying someone will steal you away. It’s selfish of me, I know. Though I feel so inferior in comparison. Sometimes I think you’re better off without me.” When he learned you met with the Lord of Corruption, his insecurities grew, fanning the flames of his envy. Why choose him over his brother? The Lord of Corruption could provide you with more than he can give. The rest of his brothers, too; they could care for you—protect you—unlike him. You’re here with him though, leaving his brother behind at a moment’s notice, and you did come when he called, eager to please. He wants to return the sentiment. “I can’t articulate how important you are to me. I . . . you’re so special, Henry.”
“No. No one compares to you.” Your praise captivates him. “All I ask is for you to trust me. Talk to me so I can help you. I accept you, all of you, and that’s not going to change. I love you as you are.”
“Love me?” he breathes.
“Yes, I love you.”
A simple but genuine vow of love. He stills, terrified he’ll faint in your arms as he hides his face, heart racing. The cynical part of him says it’s too good to be true, but he knows better—he knows you. He’s envisioned this moment, and it’s far sweeter than his fantasies, your love a beautiful feeling that sweeps him off his feet.
“Have you slept?”
He sighs, mouth unbearably dry. “No.”
“Come to bed. You should rest.”
“Henry! W-with you?”
“You say that as if it’s the first time we’ve shared a bed,” you tease.
“You’ll be the death of me.” Although he complains, the bed dips beneath his weight as he settles beside you, reaching for your hand. “Is this, okay?”
“It is.” Shifting onto your side, your hand tightens around his, a flicker of pain twisting your features.
He tenses, frowning. “Are you okay?”
“I’m all right. Better, thanks to you.”
He can see the exhaustion in your eyes, the dark circles beneath them, and the stiffness of your movements, betraying the smile you wear for him.
“Who hurt you?” he asks.
“No one you need to worry about. Not now.”
Unsurprising. You’re his Henry, besting him and his brothers on multiple occasions; anyone who chose to challenge you is a fool. Yet, your blood flowing freely, covering his hands—the ungodly stench—stayed with him. He clearly recalls your lifeless body, and how the color drained from your face, the heaviness of his heart breaking when he believed he lost you twice in one day. You looked so fragile then and do now, trusting him at your most vulnerable. Hatred for the one who dared to harm you runs deep and for himself for not protecting the one he loves.
“I thought I lost you,” he admits, inhaling sharply. “I-I . . .”
“You didn’t. You won’t.” You catch his tears as they fall. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“I love you, too.” His declaration is quick and clumsy but true; he’s loved you for so long.
Caging you in his arms, he hovers over you, peering down at you shyly. His body shakes with every beat of his heart, ears ringing, but he admires you, gaze affectionate and a light blush dusting your cheeks. He’s scared. He’s scared of losing you most of all, trying to muster half the courage he knows you possess. “I love you, Henry,” he says softly, clutching your hand, his lifeline. Closing the distance between you, he catches your lips in a tender kiss, the magnificence of it sending a rush of blood to his head. He forgets how to breathe, dizzy on the taste of your love, and collapses next to you, questioning if he died and ascended to the heavens. With you by his side the future is much brighter, and, for once, he looks forward to what it brings.
#obey me#obey me shall we date#obey me leviathan#obey me mc#obey me reader#leviathan x mc#leviathan x reader#my writing
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Thunderstorm
This....this fic really didn’t wanna be written the way it acted up while writing xD And although I thought it would be a one-Shot like the rest, I ended up with 3 chapters and 5.7k words. This was NOT planned xD Thanks once again to @bend-me-shape-me, @helianthus21 and @pray4jensen for creating this challenge :*
Read the rest here on AO3
“And now to the weather forecast. Meteorologists say there’s a huge storm system building up over the eastern states that’ll unload right over Kansas over the next few days. Don’t panic, stock up on a few necessities and you’ll be fine. It’s not the apocalypse after all.”
The news guy gave his audience a wink when the program changed to commercials.
“Awesome, we’re gonna be locked in even more, besides this whole quarantine-crap.”
“Dean! This quarantine isn’t crap! There are very vulnerable people out there who will survive because we stayed put in the Bunker!” Cas scolded him, all the while not being too fond himself of the coming storm.
Ever since the falling of the angels and the loss of his wings, he’s reminded of the loss whenever he hears thunder. He just misses the effect the sound of thunder gave the whole ‘showing his wings’ thing. It was mostly just to show off, the thunder clapping wasn’t necessary, but being an angel had some advantages and angels are full of themselves so a little show-off is just their thing.
But still, whenever he heard thunder he thought of his wings and it hurt. A lot. So he usually went away when there was a storm coming so he could suffer in private, but with the whole quarantine ordeal going on, going away wasn’t an option. He had to find a way to suffer in silence.
The wind took up over the next few days and by the second day light rain started to fall which then turned into pouring rain by the third day. The wind got to storm speed and although the clouds have been dark for a while, now they got pitch black. It was starting.
When the first clap of thunder echoed through the bunker Cas was sitting in the library, trying but failing to read a book on Siren lore.
“I’m gonna go take a shower and maybe rest for a while. See you later.” he got up and walked in the direction of the bedrooms. He had no intention to actually do any of the activities he just told Sam and Dean, but he had to get away from them before he lost his cool about this storm.
“Did that seem weird to you, too?” Dean asked his brother with furrowed brows.
“He’s been acting strange since this storm was announced on the news. You think that’s a coincidence?”
“Dean, when is anything about Cas a coincidence. Maybe he’s just afraid of storms and doesn’t wanna lose his strong face. If you’re so worried, why don’t you go and ask him?”
Sam looked up from his book and expectantly at Dean.
“I don’t know. Seemed like he wanted to be left alone.” Dean replied and sat back in his armchair, Laptop on his lap but not actually doing anything with it.
After about 15 Minutes of mindless scrolling through Reddit and Tumblr (seriously, those Supernatural fans had awesome ideas about gadgets), a few more loud thunderclaps and Cas not returning to the library Dean got worried. Sure, Cas said he wanted to rest, but who sleeps during a thunderstorm?
“I’m gonna go look after Cas. Something smells fishy about this.”
Sam only replied with a barely audible hum of acknowledgement and Dean walked towards Cas’ bedroom. It was on the very end of the hallway, but Cas insisted on it.
When he was almost at the door, Dean could hear faint whimpering coming from the bedroom, almost like someone was in pain.
With 2 large strides he was at the door and opened it without knocking. The view he had broke his heart.
Cas was crouching at the foot of his bed, his head between his knees, his arms over his head and was apparently shaking violently.
“Cas!” It was barely more than a whisper, but Cas apparently heard him since he turned his head so fast it was a miracle he didn’t pull a muscle.
“Dean, what are you doing here?” Cas’ voice was rough, and shaky, and barely audible.
He rushed over to his best friend and crouched down, touching him wherever he could, trying to ground the other man.
“Cas, Buddy, what’s going on, are you hurt? Talk to me!”
Cas grabbed Dean’s arms so hard it hurt, but Dean didn’t show any of it.
“It - it hurts, Dean!” “Where? Where does it hurt, tell me what I can do.” Dean tried to stay calm, but the obvious distress his friend was in made his stomach cramp and he had trouble breathing.
“It’s - it’s not physical, Dean. I’m not actively hurt.” Cas wiped his face with his sleeve.
“It’s the emotional pain I can’t deal with. I can heal wounds in seconds, but the wounds on my soul just won’t heal. No matter how much time goes by.” “Cas, I can’t follow, what are you talking about?”
There was a loud clap of thunder and Dean caught a glimpse of the burnt remains of Cas’ once gorgeous wings.
“My wings, Dean. I’m missing my wings so much it hurts! I used to look forward to thunderstorms because I could bring my wings over to this plane without anyone noticing, because it would be covered by the storm, so now every time there’s a thunderstorm I get reminded of what I’ve lost and it just hurts so much!” Cas started sobbing again, so Dean sat down besides him and pulled him into a tight hug.
There wasn’t really anything he could do about this. He couldn’t take the pain away from him, he knew how much mental wounds can hurt, but there was no pain killer for that.
So Dean started talking. About the storms he and Sam sat through as kids, how they would make S’Mores over the burner of the gas stove when the power went out, how they would tell each other stories while holding a flashlight under their chin, so the face would look creepy, how they would hide under blankets when it was a really bad storm and Sam would get scared. Dean left out the detail that he was scared, too, but kept his brave face for his brother’s sake. How they would go out as soon as the storm was over to breath in the fresh petrichor smell they both loved so much.
After a while of talking Dean notices Cas had calmed down a little. He wasn’t shaking anymore and the crying had subsided.
He carefully opened his arms, so Cas could sit up again.
He wiped his face once again to get rid of the remains of his tears.
“Thank you, Dean. Thank you for staying and for looking for me in the first place. I usually seek solitude when there’s a storm coming so no one sees me like this. Being this vulnerable is - hard for me to cope with. I’m not used to such strong emotions. But I guess being cut off from heaven for an extended amount of time will do that to you. You slowly become more human, with the good feelings and the bad ones.” he looked at his hands, like there was more to say, but he doesn’t want to.
Dean gently grabs Cas' chin, turning his face to meet his.
“Cas, hey. I can see there’s more to that. Please talk to me, I’m really worried about you.”
He stroked Cas’ cheek with his thumb, not quite ready to let go of that shadow of the man he thought he knew.
“It’s…” Cas started, but had to clear his throat first.
“It all started a few months after I was cut off of heaven. I noticed I could...feel things, things my angel self used to suppress but couldn’t do so anymore. In the beginning it was just small stuff like hunger or thirst or even sadness. I still didn’t need to eat, but the vessel would crave things from time to time. Like sweets or Burgers.” he stopped talking and looked like he was contemplating if he should continue talking. But since he had already started he finished his rambling.
“But then there were completely new feelings. Like lust, longing - love.” there was a pause before he said the last word. Like he didn’t want to admit that particular feeling. He almost seemed like he was ashamed of feeling it.
“And sometimes all of those feelings were overshadowed by that dreadful sadness and feeling of loss. There were times when it would just suddenly roll over me and I would almost choke on the sensation. Sometimes it was worse, sometimes not as strong, but it always took me by surprise.” Dean grabbed Cas’ hands and squeezed them a little.
“Cas, why didn’t you ever say something? You went through helluva lot with us since you dragged my sorry ass out of hell and died more times than I wanna think about. That had to leave a few scars. And unfortunately ignoring those scars doesn’t do shit to lessen the pain. Quite the contrary actually, the more you ignore them, the more it’ll hurt the next time around, I know what I’m talking about. Which is why I started to actually open up to Sam from time to time. He probably hates me for all the crap I lay on him, but he can do the same with me if he needs to, so we’re even. Maybe we should come to a similar arrangement? I rant to you when Sam can’t deal with my shit and you can come and lay all your crap on me. Does that sound like a deal to you?”
Dean smiled brightly at Cas whose face turned to stone.
“No!” There wasn’t even a hint of sadness left on his face, it was all rage and anger now.
“Thank you for the offer, but I can deal with this myself. I don’t need your help. And I’m feeling better now that the storm has passed, you can leave now.”
Cas abruptly stood up, leaving Dean with the sudden cold of the empty space besides him on the floor.
“Uh, did I say something wrong? I just tried to help.”
“I don’t need your help, Dean. Don’t judge me based on your own standards. You have no idea what I’ve been through. I’d like to be alone, now, so please. Leave.”
Cas walked over to the door which was still slightly afar, Dean didn’t bother with closing it when he had seen Cas on the floor, and held it open, so Dean could go.
“I’m sorry, Cas. I don’t know what I said to upset you, but I apologize.” “Just go, please.”
A few moments later Dean entered the library again where Sam was still hunched over his Laptop and at least 3 books.
“You’ve been gone for a while. Everything alright?” “Seriously? I have no idea.”
#SPNStayAtHome#Monday 7: Thunderstorm#destiel#dean winchester#castiel#Sam winchester#hurt/comfort#just two idiots not knowing they're in love with each other#but there's pie#Sam ships it#Mentioning of past trauma#my writing#fanfiction#destiel fanfiction
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40 Fanfic Q’s Answered
the server wants answers, and they want them now!!! from this post
1. Describe your comfort zone—a typical you-fic.
Smut and pining all the way. Also, falling in love via laughing
2. Is there a trope you’ve yet to try your hand at, but really want to?
Eh...I don’t think so, I’m always 100% self-indulgent, so what u see is what I want
3. Is there a trope you wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole?
Anything that has to do w mega sadness, I just Don’t. I can’t write anything sad, and if I do, there’s certainly gonna be A Lot of comfort afterwards
4. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?
I have 91 wips, motherfuckers!!! My latest wip is a daddy month fic!
5. Share one of your strengths.
I think, since I’ve been trying to be sparser in my words, I’ve been able to better emphasize what isn’t being said
6. Share one of your weaknesses.
No action scenes from me are ever good, lmao
7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.
It was late at night, when he started to cry.
He didn't want to cry, but he did.
It's been years since he's last let himself feel, or was it since he was last allowed to feel?
He choked on his sobs, uncomfortable with his tears. He's forgotten how to properly cry. His entire body is shaking, and the connections between flesh and wire hurts.
He stops crying. He starts crying again.
This continues for another few minutes, until he feels as if he can't possibly have any more tears.
He wipes his face, pulls the covers up to his chin, and falls asleep.
(from Twilight on the Sea) I really like this bcus I don’t think I’ve ever really typed out crying in this way, n I tried to make it feel like it was a lot
8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.
Cass was quiet for a moment. “... you know what? Maybe I’ll just go up there and surprise you.”
“If you do, then you already ruined the surprise, haven’t you?”
“Eh, I dunno about that. Seeing my beautiful face is a shock for many people.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it.”
“Hey, Koda? I don’t know about you, but it’s really late here.”
“Really?” Koda asks, then remembers that time zones exist. “Oh crap, what time is it over there?”
“It’s midnight. What about you?”
“It’s eight o’clock. Only four hours difference?”
“Oh hey, that’s not so bad.”
“It reduces our time,” Koda said, a bit whining.
“Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“What are you going to do? Move here? Send for me?”
“You’ll see.”
(from Together) This was a gift for one my best friends on here, @suncatchr , and it’s about his ocs!!! I love this a lot bcus while it’s a soulmate au, it’s not ur average soulmate au, and I tried making it as original as possible! And this blurb, I just wanted them to effuse so much love w/o having to say love...cries
9. Which fic has been the hardest to write?
If this is by posted fics, then I remember writing Look What You’ve Done to Me was very very difficult, bcus, since it’s also a gift, for @daniel-bryan , I wanted to write it Good, n since my buddy usually wrote from the love interest’s pov, I felt a weird pressure to write Daniel Bryan’s pov as good as I could
10. Which fic has been the easiest to write?
2 of my fics in Spanish!!! My oc centric one, Rayos y Centellas, and my shyan one, oye cariño, solo pienso en ti ! Turns out writing in ur native tongue makes everything easier
11. Is writing your passion or just a fun hobby?
It’s a very passionate hobby!!! I just!!! try to pour all of my love into everything I write!!!
12. Is there an episode above all others that inspires you just a little bit more?
I’m not sure!!! I just watch movies n quietly scream to my gay lonesome bcus No One Ever Watches Movies ;-;
13. What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever come across?
To just keep writing n not stop for details or forgotten lore, bcus it’s important to write down what’s firing u up Right Now. Of course, it’s very difficult following that ;;-;;
14. What’s the worst writing advice you’ve ever come across?
“No adverbs!” “No ‘said’!” “It has to make grammatical sense!” sometimes things Need those
15. If you could choose one of your fics to be filmed, which would you choose?
Was gonna say my rewrite of the end of The Rover, but actually, my SPN fic Ube . Shit was peak inspired
16. If you only could write one pairing for the rest of your life, which pairing would it be?
Eridirk (Eridan Ampora/Dirk Strider from Homestuck) all the way. The one otp that’s stayed thru thick n thin <3
17. Do you write your story from start to finish, or do you write the scenes out of order?
A little mix of both, and tbh it depends on the fic, but I tend to write chronologically
18. Do you use any tools, like worksheets or outlines?
I’ve started bullet pointing my ideas out before writing my fics, and so far, it’s been helping me be more streamlined n get my things written out faster n clearer!
19. Stephen King once said that his muse is a man who lives in the basement. Do you have a muse?
Is the need for representation in all the niche movies I keep watching a muse?
20. Describe your perfect writing conditions.
In my dark room, w music blasting from my laptop, the TV w a soft hum, I have the perfect playlist to get the mood right, curled up in my blankies, n my plushie Sweet Pea by my side
21. How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?
Zero, we rely on autocorrect & editing while typing and die like men
22. Choose a passage from one of your earlier fics and edit it into your current writing style. (Person sending the ask is free to make suggestions).
YOU DON��T SEEM SCARED.
Del Rio shrugs. “Working as a cop, it makes you numb to some things. It’s good, it lets you react to things as you should, and not how you’d want to.”
YOU SOUND SAD ABOUT THAT.
He makes a noncommittal noise. “It is what it is.” He eats another spoonful of his ice cream, then gets a thought.
“Can you show up?”
HOW SO?
“Can you,” he tries, waving his spoon around, “Manifest?”
I DON’T KNOW. I’LL TRY.
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” Del Rio assures, and he can feel the air around him smile. The...world, he thinks, around him shifts just slightly, and there seems to be a chink in the armor for a moment before it goes away, as if someone had wiped the glass clear. He realizes that this is her, trying to show up in a physical form, step out of the phone.
He doesn’t know where to look, but then his confusion wanes when a butterfly shows up, fluttering towards him. It lands near his phone, skitters a bit, flaps its wings.
“Lucy?” he asks, transfixed on the butterfly. Its orange wings are bright under the sunlight.
I THOUGHT I’D TRY SMALL, FOR MY FIRST TRIAL.
“Well, you certainly nailed it.” He smiled warmly at the butterfly, and he had the crazy notion that it smiled back at him.
(adapted from The Policeman , the first fic I posted!)
23. If you were to revise one of your older fics from start to finish, which would it be and why?
Yeah, probably The Policeman lmao, I remember it today n I cringe a little at the very obvious refs to other fandoms I made. Despite that, it continues being one of my best hits!
24. Have you ever deleted one of your published fics?
Never
25. What do you look for in a beta?
I’m just thankful to have gotten a beta in general in life at all
26. Do you beta yourself? If so, what kind of beta are you?
I beta’ed once, and since English is my 2nd language, I pointed out syntax confusion, typos, n continuity errors
27. How do you feel about collaborations?
Can be done, it’s just that I am frightened. Tried doing that, it fell thru, n the new thing that came up, I still have to hold up my end of the bargain ;;-;;
28. Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.
cries omg ok so!!! Chancy_Lurking ( @lurkerviolin ) is one of my faves, n we’ve become friends, n their Felix+ Sense8 series is the reason for it all, and u know it’s good if it managed to make a friendship that’s last its good while, and also they’re so nice, and we vibe so well!!! thegoatz ( @daniel-bryan ) is also now one of my bestest friends ever, and I wuv him so much, he is such a good kid, n he’s so enthusiastic about writing, and I hope that spark never goes out!!! And adamwhatareyouevendoing ( @skatingthinandice ) bcus she’s doing a rewrite of The Last Kingdom where it’s all gay where it should be and vnjkdfsnvkd God, what a wonderful friend!!!
29. If you could write the sequel (or prequel) to any fic out there not written by yourself, which would you choose?
I actually technically am working on a sequel to @rettaroo ‘s A New Kind of Touch ! Another promise I have to hold up eventually ;;;-;;;
30. Do you accept prompts?
Sure!
31. Do you take liberties with canon or are you very strict about your fic being canon compliant?
I try to follow canon as much as I possibly can!
32. How do you feel about smut?
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
33. How do you feel about crack?
Eh, it’s alright. I don’t normally look for it, so I don’t really have a solid opinion on it
34. What are your thoughts on non-con and dub-con?
I don’t want to read it, but I have so far encountered it twice very amicably: once here in a ficlet, and another in a longer fic on AO3, and they were both very good
35. Would you ever kill off a canon character?
Probably not, I don’t like sad things!
36. Which is your favorite site to post fic?
AO3! I’m RedLlamas on it!
37. Talk about your current wips.
Lmao which one. The one I’m currently working on is an impregnation kink turned “oh no I actually do wanna have a family” feelings fic!
38. Talk about a review that made your day.
Gonna be real w u, the best comments I’ve gotten have mainly been from my friends, who either write a paragraph or two going into detail of the fic, or just send a one sentence comment that’s just “screams!” I’ve gotten very few paragraphs from other people, n they’re always so!!!

My friends are the realest :’)
39. Do you ever get rude reviews and how do you deal with them?
The perks of being a rarepair writer is that the only people who read my fics are the ones actively looking for content!!! And they can’t complain about my work because No One Else Is Writing For It!!!!!!
40. Write an alternative ending to [insert fic title] (or just the summary of one).
All my fics are masterpieces, so I’ll do a summary change! For don’t you just know (exactly what they’re thinking?)
Dakota finds himself in unexpected heartbreak, and the universe decides to bring him in the direction of a night club with a dancer with stars on his skin.
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Day 1:
Kind of a quiet day, mostly me napping and him reading the books he'd ordered recently. It's a Saturday so he doesn't have to work from home.
Day 2:
We talk a bit over breakfast, and I self-isolate during the day to avoid sharing my leftover bad mood from the reasons of my leaving the family abode. I tend to isolate myself when I feel like shit to avoid spreading it to other people, (insert instances of doing it through flashbacks) and he tries to reach out at first but then keeps mostly to himself.
Day 3:
He's working from home. So after breakfast he sets up his computer in the living room on the coffee table.
Having cried myself to sleep on Day 2, I feel better about being in his presence today. So I grab my Arabian Nights book and read on the armchair while he's sitting on the couch, staring at his screen in concentration as he's used to doing at work. I sneak glances at him over my book, and he notices once. This makes a small smile creep under his beard and it makes me blush like a schoolgirl.
Other than that instance, nothing of import happened. I made soup for dinner while he still worked, and we ate and talked about lore and mythology. We smoked as dessert and he shared a writing project he had.
We go to our rooms at 02:45am and sleep right away.
Day 4:
I wake up to the sound of a shower running. As someone who gets anxiety from men's cologne/cosmetics, I'm glad I thought to bring my shower gels (a fruity sweet one and a flowery fresh one). Thankfully, his clothes bear my smell now (cause of the baby oil I rub on myself every night), even though I haven't smelled cologne on him yet.
As I exit my room (his guest bedroom, which I took to liking), I bump into him.
He's DEFINITELY only wearing a towel right now. I lower my eyes immediately, which lands me on the specific spot that the towel covers, but then I make eye contact again.
"Good morning." Great line, poor delivery.
An apathetic half-smile lifts his moustache (I'm accentuating cause his moustache hides his whole upper lip which isn't unattractive but would be kinda complicated to kiss???). "Morning." And he walks past me without another word.
I'm so taken aback i follow him with my eyes and notice his shoulders tense and his back muscles coiling under his skin. He's not that built, but he's lean enough that the tension is noticeable.
I shrug and go wash up for breakfast, which happens normally. Though I'd say he's a bit less talkative than usual. I even try to spark up a debate in one of our chosen fields, but he doesn't bite. He's usually very argumentative...
The day goes by in this fashion, with a silent dinner and no talk until bedtime.
I go to bed perplexed that night.
Days 5 and 6:
Thursday and Friday would be skipped cause it'd just be narrator introspection and giving him time to reach out cause we confined and I don't wanna stir up arguments with a dude I barely know and who hoarded Pastis like it was made of gold before quarantine
the particularity about these days is that each morning I heard the shower and found that there was no more hot water when I tried to wash up, and he skipped dinner altogether on Friday night.
Day 7:
I wake up and for the first time in three days, the shower isn't what wakes me up. Instead it's the TV, a bit louder than comfortable. (btw I'm picturing this in the second apartment I made cause it's what I pictured first)
I slept kind of... groggily last night, so I look for yoga exercises in my Instagram saved collections and stretch for five minutes.
As I grab my bag to retrieve my toiletries, it suddenly clicks: He's been grumpy and tense all of a sudden, a hot shower every morning, his muscles and shoulders coiled... He needs a massage. I let my fingertips linger on the baby oil bottle as I process my epiphany, seriously considering offering the massage right now.
I quickly shake off the idea as I gather my toiletries and go shower. I notice he uses a grunt as a greeting, so I use silence and proceed to the bathroom.
I notice he's watching a Netflix show, sitting on the carpet with his back to the couch, which is bad for his condition but... his loss, I guess.
See that sass? It all disappears when I rub myself with baby oil after my shower and exfoliation. I purse my lips and shake off the scorn from his attitude. He was like a wounded wolf who'd snarl at anyone approaching him with help, and I need to keep him happy just long enough to remove the bear trap.
As I get out, I'm met with his clothed chest, nearly colliding with him. I look up to face him.
"Did you use all of the hot water?" He asks, visibly trying to stay amicable.
I blink and frown. "How are you feeling? Physically?"
He frowns minutely. "I'm fine."
I shrug, maybe now's not the moment. "Yes, there's still hot water."
He turns around as I walk past him back to my room. "Why did you ask?"
I turn around, letting the daylight from the kitchen illuminate me, which is uncomfortable without my glasses. I squint at him and gesture towards his upper body.
"You've been tense these days, and it's affecting your mood," I observe, trying desperately not to spark an argument.
He purses his lips in a matter-of-fact way and shrugs. "It's not like anyone can do anything about it right now."
He enters the bathroom before I get a chance to reply and I imitate his last gesture as I go to my room.
I put back my toiletries and go to the kitchen to make tea for the pair of us. As I grab my mug, I go to the bookshelf to choose something to read. As I settle for the Van Gogh book that started it all and take place on the loveseat, he exits the bathroom and a wave of sauna emits from the open door.
"Maybe crack a window?" I suggest, making him smirk. He's still tense.
I roll my eyes at his stubbornness and keep reading until he comes back to the living room with his tea and presses play again on his TV show. I'm sitting facing the TV and can see from the corner of my eye that he's fidgeting.
I get up suddenly, put the book back in the shelf and place the mug on the coffee table. He notices my moves and follows me down the hall with his eyes. I put a drop of baby oil in the palm of my hand and rub it so that it doesn't leak on the carpet and go back to the living room.
I sit directly behind him, holding him down by the shoulder when he's about to move, and fold my legs behind his back. He's wearing a T-shirt, so it's easy to get access to his shoulders.
I spread the excess oil on his cervical spine and shoulders.
"You're aware this isn't going to do anything, right?" He asks with insulting disdain.
I stay silent as I start the real massage, which is deep tissue. He's startled at first, but then he complies and leans forward, bracing himself against the coffee table with his forearms and his forehead on them.
I apply pressure on his shoulders close to his neck, on the back of his neck, and his cervical spine. After a moment of hesitation, I start using my fingernails on his scalp, starting between his shoulder blades with my hands and finishing at the crease of his skull with my fingernails. At that moment, I hear a faint but very present guttural noise rumble in his chest.
I keep massaging him until his breathing deepens and his muscles feel like dough. At that point, my legs are both asleep and it feels like torture.
So I lean forward and I whisper (it's something I do when I just finished a massage so they don't get startled by noise after such relaxation), "Wake up, Little Wolf."
He rises so suddenly, my chest is pressed against his back and I have to hold on to him to avoid making him paraplegic by falling on his already damaged spine. He turns to me and our faces are an inch from one another's. It takes us a moment to recover from this, but he offers me his hand to help me get off the couch, and I accept it.
"That felt fucking great, thank you." He stated in a still sleepy voice.
I press my lips together and make a salute gesture. "Anytime!"
Before I can see his response, I back into the hallway and go to my room, closing my door as I get there.
I avoid him for the rest of the day to reflect on what never happened.
Day 8:
I stay in bed today. I scroll through end-of-the-world memes and turn over, keeping the blinds shut. I wake up at nine but let noon stroll by without leaving my room. It's Sunday, so I know he's not working. I hear bustling in the kitchen, it being adjacent to my bedroom. I hesitate to get out several times, but end up staying in bed until 2:30pm.
At that moment, a Messenger bubble pops up, still grey so I didn't know who was the sender, but the message said, "Come out, come out, little mouse."
When I scrolled down the notifications, it was his name above the message. I smiled despite myself and shuffled out of the room, dragging my feet.
I found an outside-dressed Douaïb waiting in the kitchen, sitting at the table.
He was drinking his beverage and scrolling through his phone as though he hadn't just texted me. I pressed my lips together, poured myself a tea, and sat down next to him. Just as I pulled out my phone, he put down his.
"I'm going out today, wanna join?"
I took a sip, considering it. "Where are you headed?"
"Just shopping, thought you might wanna join for... whatever you might need." He adds the latter eyeing the Silmiya T-shirt as though he were judging my fashion sense.
I look down instinctively and then back up. "I hope some clothing stores are open, then."
He downs the last of his drink and says, "Alright, we depart in ten minutes."
I nearly choke on my drink. "I haven't even washed up yet!"
"Too bad, guess you should've gotten up earlier." And he arrogantly strolls to his bedroom, leaving me to a nearly full mug of steamy tea and no hygiene whatsoever. I leave my tea and go get dressed in a top, jeans, and a hoodie. I wear my cap to hide the rebellious, unheated hair, and slip on my ankle boots before grabbing my wallet and empty travel mug. I pour the tea in it and meet a cockily ready Douaïb at the door, waiting for me while looking at his watch.
He pokes out his bottom lip. "Not bad, you've still got a minute."
I roll my eyes and push past him to the outside corridor.
We make it to the car and I plug in my phone to share my playlist, singing and rapping along to some of my tracks. This is a weirdly relaxing environment, where I insist that my songs are good while he goes on rants to prove that I only listen to commercial music.
When he parks in the Centre of Algiers, we separate as I go to Meissonnier and he goes to wherever he needs to.
It's only at that moment that we first exchange phone numbers.
"It's weird that we're only now exchanging phone numbers."
"There wasn't a need before now." He states, matter-of-factly. "Now, remember to wear the mask if the market is crowded."
Being in a cheerful mood, I grasp at the occasion. "Awww you care about me, don't you?"
He fights an amused smile. "I don't want my apartment contaminated because of you is all. Call me when you're done, and don't buy veggies, I will."
"Okay, guess I'll see you later." I avoid making a remark about how we sound like a married couple.
°°°
In the market, I look for any clothing stores that might still be open, and I get lucky with one that I'm used to visiting. I buy two pairs of pyjamas, both shorts, and three tops. I also stock up on underwear and a cute bra. The latter was only because the wire in my current bra was attempting to stab my boobs.
I also buy more toiletries, mainly wax, due to the fact that I had just bought shorts, and other necessities I felt I was lacking.
I seriously consider buying a hair straightener but the shop isn't open anyway, so the decision is quickly made.
After all of that, I decide on buying groceries to at least participate in my presence in his apartment.
When I'm done, I call him and we meet at the car again. My fat shopping bags earn raised eyebrows as he gets into the car.
That evening, I make pesto pasta (pre-made sauce, let's be real) while still wearing his PJs.
We have dinner in the living room in front of Colombo, which we both find out is each other's guilty pleasure. As I collect our now-dry plates, he stops me.
"I'll wash them, you go do you."
"Do me?" I ask, genuinely confused.
"I'm sure you're all excited about your new clothes, and whatnot."
I roll my eyes for the umpteenth time that day. "You'll get your T-shirt tomorrow, but you can still do the dishes," I offer cheerfully.
He rolls his eyes at me, "Sure thing, just leave them here."
"Thank you," I sing as I walk past him to my room.
It's about 11pm when I say that, and while he's busy dishing I take the advantage of sound to wax my winter legs the most that I can before choosing some light blue shorts and a burgundy T-shirt. I wear his sweatpants again and go have a bath to melt the sticky wax off my legs. As I walk by the kitchen, I see that he's cleaning up around the sink, so I fill up the bath and pour some essential oils that I bought from the market (for no particular reason).
I come out of the shower smelling like cinnamon with baby-soft legs and PJs on fleek around 1am, so he must be sleeping. Right... Tomorrow's Monday.
Day 9:
I wake up early Monday morning and stretch, noting how much good it did me Saturday morning. I make sense of my belongings and finally decide to place them under my bed as opposed to on the desk chair. I open the closet mirror and check my hair... Not catastrophic. Definitely preferable to whatever the boxer braids did to it. I then go to the kitchen to start on breakfast when a folded piece of paper catches my attention on the table.
"I went to the office today, I'll be back before 7. -- El Dib."
I raise my eyebrows slightly. This can only mean one thing: Original audio on my TV shows, baby!
I spend the day watching The Tudors, which was high up on my bucket list. And just when things were about to get real with Anne Boleyn, I hear the keys get inserted into the lock. I slump into the couch a bit deeper and grab a handful of popcorn (cliché, I know, but I spent the past three episodes munching on salted popcorn).
He's carrying a cardboard box which I can only guess contains his work computer. People have been carrying those around since working from home became an option at webhelp. Over the cardboard box was a pastry box, which was odd. I paused The Tudors and went to help him with the pastry box, placing it in the kitchen and, as per my habit, opening it immediately to assess its contents. At that moment, I can't quite say if it's his cologne or the cake but I quite feel like jumping him.
"Is it somebody's birthday?" I ask from the kitchen.
"It's my sweet tooth's birthday and you have to celebrate it with me," he announces from the living room as a sound of glass bottles echoes throughout the apartment.
I stick my head through the frame. "Got thirsty?"
He smirks and pulls out a bottle of Jack. "Very. Care to join?"
I shake my head and go back to face the cake. "Want a piece? And, more importantly, can _I_ get a piece?"
"What?" He asks from his bedroom.
I skip through the corridor and push his slightly ajar door, which takes us both by surprise. He's shirtless with a tank top in one hand and his button down in the other. His eyes travel down to my bare legs and my askew t-shirt with some surprise marring his gaze. Did he think I had hooves or something? I let my eyes skim across his chest and deem him attractive enough without being skeletal... Not that it's any of my business or anything.
"Cake." I state, raising my eyebrows at him, making him look up.
"Sure, I'll take a piece." He murmurs, malice creeping on his features. "The cake sounds nice too."
I was leaving but retreat a few steps to make eye contact with him. "I do hope you don't drink and drive."
"Never on duty," he winks as he wears his tank top and strolls past me, making sure we're both in the threshold at the same time.
My heart skips a beat but I would never admit to that ever happening. I hand him the knife I had brought. "I'll only have the cake, please."
He stays in the threshold, keeping eye contact. "Just the cake, huh?"
"Yeah, I don't drink." I murmur. He's close enough to hear me breathe.
Thankfully and unfortunately, he leaves and a breath I didn't know I was holding leaves me. For some reason, I go to my room and discreetly tap some of my lemon and jasmine perfume behind my ears, on my collar bone, and on my wrists.
When I go back to the living room, he's sat on the couch with a tumbler of Jack (probably) and a piece of cake. Another piece is on the coffee table with a mug of reheated red tea. I sit cross-legged and take the plate, trying desperately not to notice his fleeting looks at me.
"Let's see what you were watching, shall we?" He announces. Alcohol makes him more of a tease. "Ew, English."
I roll my eyes and finish chewing before answering. "I had to take advantage of your absence somehow, didn't I?"
He gives me the look that's specific to Douaïb, where it's a mix of exasperation and malice. As if I'd said exactly the aggravating thing he'd wanted me to say. I grin at him and he smiles back, taking a sip of his drink and smacking his lips frankly. He flips through shows and movies, trying to decide on what to watch.
After some time, I get antsy and groan. "Come _on_, just pick one, if it's bad we'll criticise it, how about that?"
He narrows his eyes at me and fights a grin. "I don't really feel like watching anything right now."
I press my lips together and my eyes fall on the chess set. "Teach me how to play chess, then."
He raises one eyebrow. "Are you sure?"
"Why wouldn't I be sure?" I ask.
His malice is still present as he shakes his head and goes to sit at the chess table. "No reason, come over here."
He spends three quarters of an hour teaching me in a mock-game where he explains his moves and tells me how I can counter them. Having him explain something with pedagogy brings me back to when I first met him as my new product instructor at work, and that feels... nostalgic? The word doesn't really fit, but that's what comes to mind.
After nearly an hour of teaching and a second tumbler of Jack later, he locks gazes with me as though to connect our minds.
"What?" I ask, wary.
"I have a proposition for you." He announces, leaning back in his chair.
"I do not like this." I murmur over my mug of cold tea, making him bark a laugh.
"Not _that_ kind of proposition. Well... not _exactly_ that kind." He concedes, trying to throw an innocent look but failing crookedly.
I roll my eyes and exhale from my nose. "Alright, what's the proposition?"
"You know the rules of the game now, and I know you've got enough brains to string them together. So my proposition is, the winner of this game gets to ask for a favour, and the other one has to comply." He takes a sip of his tumbler to punctuate the end of his sentence.
I raise my eyebrows. "Sounds interesting."
"It's a deal then!" He exclaims, presenting me his hand to shake.
"No contact, coronavirus!" I exclaim before taking his germaphobe hand in mine, making him grimace some.
The game starts, and the beginning is hopeful for me. I haven't exactly thought of the favour I'd ask for if I won, mostly because I never like to be too optimistic. It looks like the end of the game for him, but with his four remaining pieces he decimates my side of the board. The smirk on his face is unmistakeable as he takes my king. He'd planned for this all along. I narrow my eyes at him.
"Spit it out."
"Are you upset?" He drawls, swirling and then downing the last of his drink.
"I'm upset at myself for accepting this disguised deal," I murmur, folding my arms over my chest.
He goes to the kitchen and starts washing his tumbler and plate. I notice he hasn't taken my plate so I join him there and wait for my turn to wash my dishes.
"My favour is so small, it's not even a favour to me, really," he slurs in his tipsy demeanour as he asks for my dishes without turning around.
"I do wonder what it entails," I sing as I hand him my plate and mug and lean back against the table, folding my arms over my chest.
He finishes washing the dishes silently, dries his hands, and turns around, leaning back against the kitchen sink. "A kiss is all I want."
I tilt my head to the side and give him an indulgent smile. "That's all? Child's play."
"Is this a yes?" He asks incredulously, momentarily losing his cool.
"I don't have a choice, do I?" I ask back, subconsciously biting my lip.
He advances on me, earning an adult version of his name, and stands a literal inch away from me. Our eyes are glued to one anothers. The kitchen is dark, so the only light comes from the corridor and the balcony. The sliding door is open, so why do I feel so warm?
Subconsciously, I lean back further against the table, making a chair groan as it slides into the table. It's at that moment that he places his hands on my hips, sliding them towards my back and up between my shoulder blades, making my t-shirt ride up slightly. My arms fall to my sides, and just as I was about to cup his face...
Ding, ding, ding!
He closes his eyes in frustration, and I feel his hands tighten, as though wanting to be fists, on my back.
Ding, ding, ding!
He leans back, and again I release a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. He answers his phone dryly as I go put the chess pieces back on the board for something to occupy my sweaty hands.
"Yeah, yeah, hold up a second," he mutes his microphone and turns to me, "this is going to take quite a while, don't wait on me, okay?"
I squint at him and nod. "Yeah sure, go ahead, take your time."
I quickly finish putting away the chess pieces and grab my phone to go to my bedroom.
That night, I can't fall asleep, even with ASMR. My heart is racing with what almost happened.
Did I _want_ it to happen or... No. I'd just lost a bet, was all. And he was tipsy. Probably not master of his actions.
Somehow, that did not convince me...
Day 10:
I oversleep. It's mostly because it took me so long to fall asleep last night, and for good reason. What reason, you ask? I have a crush on my host, that's the reason. I sit on my bed and find it is nearing 2pm. I shrug in no particular direction as I make my way towards the bathroom. I don't exactly think about the fact he's already working in the living-room as I shuffle lazily to go wash up. I vaguely notice he's not at the set-up computer, so I'm only half-surprised when he's in the shower as I get in and get hit in the face by the steam.
"Sorry, I didn't notice this was busy," I say, just loud enough for him to hear.
"Oh good, you're awake. I need you." He announces, shutting off the water.
I quickly close the bathroom door and go sit in the kitchen, waiting for whatever he needs from me. I only wait two minutes as he comes out of the bathroom... Only holding a towel to his waist. Is this a test?
"I think I knotted a muscle in my side, I stretched and did everything but it won't stop bothering me. Think you can do something about it?" He asks, as though yesterday had never happened. Maybe it hadn't, and I just imagined it... Or maybe he simply doesn't remember it or doesn't wanna address it.
"Sure thing, step 1: go wear pants." I muse, following his lead of not mentioning or acknowledging yesterday.
"Just pants?" He asks, a hint of yesterday's malice discernible in his tone.
"Do you want to feel better or not?" I ask, growing a teensy bit frustrated. I, myself, acknowledge that I may be overreacting, but there isn't a way to stop it.
"Alright, give me a second." He concedes, going to his room.
I try to remove from my mind that there was a bump on his towel as he left. I make myself tea and sit there, waiting. Five minutes pass... Then ten... Is he wearing pants or pantaloons? Just when I resolve myself to go knock on his door, he shows up in the kitchen and winces at his sudden whipping around.
"Well, aren't you coming?" He asks, as though I were supposed to know what he meant.
"Coming where?" I ask, setting down my untouched tea.
"Might I remind you that I'm on my supposed lunch break and that I need to start working again in less than 45 minutes? Come to my room." And he leaves without waiting for an answer.
I follow him, making a stop by my bedroom to retrieve the baby oil I'd first used on him. I find him laying on his stomach sideways in bed. I tilt my head to myself. Is this really happening? This looks like the beginning of a porno.
"Okay, which side is it and where?" I ask, oiling my hands.
"Left side, right above the kidney area, next to my shoulder blade."
I kneel at the end of the bed and start spreading the oil from my hands to the desired area, pressing occasionally to ask for directions. I massage his pain away, earning some guttural moans which only make my job more difficult (while it usually encourages me to keep massaging). Knowing he can't see me, I bite my lip when he moans and take glances at his hands. They're of the water type. Earth and fire hands are thick and usually have short-ish fingers, like mine. Water and air hands are thin, with long fingers and usually good nails, which was the case with him. As I undo the knots in his side, I decide fuck it, might as well do the whole back. I make his skin absorb all of the oil, and do his shoulders, the back of his head with my nails like last time, and when I work from his cervical spine to the small of his back, I hear his first snore. Really? I look at the alarm clock and it's 2:39pm. I keep massaging until it's 2:45 to give him time to freshen up before work, and maybe grab a bite.
When that time comes, I lean forward towards his ear and run my fingers through his hair, "Doudou, wake up. It's a quarter to three."
He groans and turns over on his side to face me. "I told you not to call me that."
I fold my arms over my chest. "Well I don't appreciate being an unpaid masseuse first thing in the morning, either."
He laughs out loud. "It's hardly morning, sleepy head."
I give him a scornful half-smile. "Oh, look who's talking, you've got pillow marks all over your cheek and it's only been twenty minutes."
"What can I say, you're a magician," he muses, throwing me a flirty glance. "Where did you learn that anyway?"
"It's intuitive, for the most part. And the rest is what I wish was done to me." I immediately regret the latter part.
"You need only ask," he sings as he surveys me, making eye contact with me in silence.
"And you need to get back to work," I change the subject because for some reason this is making me uncomfortable.
He gets up and gives me a hand to get up without falling, cause I was quite literally on the edge of the bed. Before I leave his bedroom, he grazes my arm with his finger, making me turn to him.
"Hey um..." For a moment it feels like he's going to mention yesterday. "Thanks... For fixing me."
"Physically," I intone, grinning at his confusion.
"Chess tonight?" He asks, winking when my eyebrows jump in surprise.
I smirk. "Sure."
We do indeed play chess that night, but no favour is mentioned. It's an easy day, and I couldn't be happier about that. I go to sleep with a smile on my face and a sense of relief.
Day 12: I wake up groggily, and the first thing I notice, before opening my eyes, is that my bed seems to be wider. As I open them, I bolt upright. I’m not in my room, I’m in his. What the hell? I don’t remember how I got in here, and, worst of all, I don’t remember anything that happened after the game of chess… I sit up; look at the alarm clock—only to find it turned off. Curious. I shuffle to my bedroom, only to find the chair turned over and my phone plugged and on the desk. What happened? What the HELL happened? I grab my phone and find it turned off. But it was plugged in, why’s it off? It’s even saying low battery. I make my way to the living-room and find an unexpected sight. Every electronic device is off, and I confirm by turning the light switch that the electricity’s been cut off. That is normal for Algiers, the unexpected sight is Douaïb sleeping in the couch, he hasn’t even bothered to set up the work computer. I’d venture to guess he’s already texted or called someone to signal it. As I walk by the kitchen, I notice a clump of broken glass in a bowl of newspaper. I frown. I really need to ask him what happened… after washing up. When I face the bathroom mirror, I understand a good deal of what I’m feeling. My eyes are red and puffy, my face is sticky, and my gaze is even a bit downturned despite the obvious confusion on my features. Last night comes to me in flashes…
Day 11: I wake up to find myself starving. I go directly to the kitchen, where I find the last piece of the birthday cake on a plate on the table and one missing chair. I instinctively look at the balcony and find it with its occupant smoking. This reminds me that I still have an untouched pack of cigarettes in my backpack. I go fetch it and join him on the balcony. I sit with my back to the railing on the floor and extend my legs before me. We’re silent for a while, gazing at the faraway harbour with grey clouds looming above it. He lives in La Grande Poste, a bit higher than the Poste, so the harbour is visible, as well as most of the Centre of Algiers. “Slept well?” He asks, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray on the floor. “Can’t say I didn’t,” I shrug before taking a long drag of my cigarette. “You?” “Like a drunk baby,” he chuckles as he gathers his belongings to go inside, probably to start working. “Need anything?” He asks, poking his head back from the kitchen. “That Van Gogh book you have,” I say, making eye contact. He smirks and brings it to me presently. Hours go by and I tear through the pages, not noticing when lunchtime comes and goes. It’s only when the evening prayer is called for that I notice I’ve been reading for five hours. And I somehow didn’t finish the book. I go to the bathroom to freshen up, since I went directly to the kitchen upon waking up. The evening comes as usual, when 8 chimes, he starts packing up the work computer while I serve dinner. Sautéed veggies, tonight. We go for a game of chess. I’m getting better at it. Not that I’m winning or anything, but games last longer and he frowns more. This time, we move the chess set on the couch as well as drinks (sparkling water, for me, Pastis for him). We sit side by side as he gets increasingly tipsy and I get increasingly flirtatious. Do I control it? I’d venture to guess that I do. I just don’t really care about the consequences. At some point during the game, I drop one of the defeated pawns from the coffee table onto the carpet, so he leans down to pick it up, instinctively placing a steadying hand on my bare knee. He places the pawn on the table but keeps his hand on my knee. I grab his hand softly and intertwine our fingers, making him look up at me. Our faces are inches apart as he breathes Pastis in the space separating us. I get up suddenly, too suddenly in fact, sending my empty glass crashing on the floor. I gasp and cover my mouth. “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry—” I move to go pick up the pieces but he grabs my wrist firmly. “Stop this, you’re barefoot!” “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking!” I keep apologising, because I’m mortified. The logical part of my brain tells me it’s not a big deal, but the anxious part keeps apologising and being mortified. He grabs me by the shoulders, about to speak when he stops. “Are you… crying?” Am I? I instinctively bring my fingers to my cheek. I am indeed crying, but… why? I know this won’t matter in a few minutes. I have been feeling a bit cooped up, but nothing major, and I’ve definitely felt worse. Before I can control my actions, I burst into sobs and he pulls me into a tight hug. I cling to him and cry my eyes out while he feebly rubs my back. I calm down, but stay in the hug, and he doesn’t pull away. His caresses go from my back to my head. “Are you okay?” He whispers after some time. I nod against his chest, and he pulls away, first wiping away my tears and then locking eyes with me. “Do you want to talk? About it or about anything else?” I don’t answer. I simply lean up to his lips and kiss him, wrapping my arms around his neck. He’s taken aback at first, and I remember faintly thinking that I should have asked first, but then he wraps his arms around me, walking and making me walk backwards towards the chess table (now barren, since the set is on the coffee table). When I feel the table poking the small of my back, I slide my right hand from his cheek to his chest. He breaks off the kiss and lifts me up swiftly, making me sit on the table. We make eye contact again and his eyes look hazy. He grabs my jaw and leans in for the most feral kiss yet. I faintly recall biting his bottom lip, making him chuckle through a kiss. I also faintly recall hearing the fridge turn off in the kitchen. As we slide our hands under each other’s tops, we break the kiss and… it’s still dark. I remember we don’t really care, and are about to kiss again when my phone rings from my bedroom. It’s dark but I know that, like me, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against mine. I caress his bearded jaw and drag my nails across the back of his neck and up his scalp. “I need to go check it,” I whisper, poking the tip of his nose with mine. “Fuck it,” his voice is raspy. “I’d rather not, it could be important,” I murmur, placing a soft kiss on his lips and extracting myself from the embrace. “Careful, there’s broken glass on the floor.” “At least I’m not barefoot!” He calls behind me. I poke my way around my bedroom and find my phone lit up. I was right. It was important. My sister called me. As high as my spirits got from that make out session, my heart dropped to my stomach. It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve last spoken to her, and I miss her the most. And if she calls me at this time of night… She must miss me too. At that moment, I feel so guilty and so angry with myself that I throw my phone across the room and kick the desk chair, making it fall over. The sound brings a flickering candle light and a concerned Douaïb to the room. I faintly remember him kneeling and cupping my face. He asks me a question but I don’t hear it, I just let tears roll down my cheeks, with the occasional whimper. He grabs my hand, making my focus on one thing at a time, and leads me to his bedroom. He sits me down and I remember him saying something about sleeping here tonight. He’s about to leave but I take his hand. “Will you stay with me? Until I fall asleep?” My voice is lower than I remember it being. It takes him a full second to consider it before he blows out the candle and lies down in the middle of the bed. I curl up against him and he caresses my shoulder. I fall asleep in minutes.
Day 12:
I don’t know how to feel. On one hand, he seems to… care about me. On the other hand, I need electricity to come back as soon as possible to know why my sister tried to call. I only realise how hard I’m gripping the sink when it digs so hard into the heels of my hands that they feel numb. I remove them from there and wash them under warm water. I wash up and sit on the edge of the bathtub. Eventually, I slide on the floor and rest my back against the bathtub. I don’t cry, because I’ve dried out. But I still sit on the bathroom floor for a while before I hear rustling in the living-room. I still don’t move, even when I hear him calling for me.
After some time, there’s a soft knock on the bathroom door. “Hey… You in there?”
My voice gets lost in my throat, so I knock on the bathtub glass loud enough to hear from the other side of the door. Apparently, this worries him, because next thing I know the door flings open. Did he expect to find me in a pool of my own blood? I mean—yeah, he wouldn’t be wrong in assuming that. I can’t bring myself to alter my features in any way, so I kind of just… stare at him neutrally. His initial surprise and assessment of my situation fade, and he kneels in front of me, eventually sitting cross-legged.
“D’you wanna talk?” He asks finally, breaking the silence.
I shrug one shoulder. “Talking isn’t going to help when I don’t even know what’s wrong with me.”
He comes to sit to my left, right under the window. “We could just stay here, if you want. Or go somewhere more comfortable.”
I finally manage to twitch the corners of my lips into an attempt at a smile. “Can we go for a smoke?”
He stands up and extends his hand towards me. I accept it and rise too quickly. I find myself an inch from his chest. I look up and realise he’s got an arm around my shoulders, ready to support me in case I break.
I keep his hand in mine, and murmur, “Thank you… Thank you for everything you’re doing for me.”
He places his hand on my cheek and kisses my forehead. I lean in to hug him, and he caresses my back. I take long, deep, steadying breaths. This feels right.
We stay in that embrace for a few minutes and then take warm drinks to the balcony and smoke, while talking about anything but the situation at hand. The situation being me. I go through five cigarettes of my pack before snuggling close to him. In fact, we’d only taken pillows and blankets to the balcony, meaning we were sat together in the comfiest setting I had ever experienced. The day is sunny, and we can see the differences in depth in the sea. At some point, I doze off against his chest, and he hums a tune.
I wake up at some point, I remember, and plant a soft kiss on his lips. I remember this because right after that his embrace on me tightened.
The evening goes by without electricity. We skip dinner and spend the evening playing chess to candle light. When bedtime comes, my heart skips a beat.
“Uh Douaïb?”
“Yeah?” He turns around in the middle of the corridor.
“Can I… Can I sleep with you tonight?” I ask, praying to God he won’t misunderstand me.
He squints and walks towards me. “Are you okay?”
I consider brushing it off. “I—I don’t want to stay alone. At all.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and we go to his bedroom. He goes to sit on one side of the bed and before I go sit on the other side, I consider another option for the end of our evening. I stand in front of him and cup his face, planting a deep kiss on his lips. He snakes his arms around my waist and I kneel on his lap—well, I sit on his lap and kneel on the bed on either side of him. We break the kiss and stare into each other’s eyes in the darkness. The only light comes from the full moon reflected on the harbour, and it only lights up the left side of his face.
In that moment I realise that I am not romantically attracted to him.
I certainly enjoy his presence and his aura. He’s a great kisser and an even greater friend. But I don’t feel romantically towards him. Maybe it is too early to decide on anything, but so far… that’s how I feel.
We go to sleep in each other’s embrace after a few minutes of cuddling.
Day 13:
I wake up and find a weight on my side. Opening my eyes, I see a familiar arm wrapped around me. I snuggle into the embrace, waking him up. He nestled a kiss in the crook of my neck. I turn over and straddle him, planting pecks all over his face, giggling. We stop after some time and he sits up. Our faces are inches from one another’s. He closes the space between us (or I close it, I can’t be sure) in our softest and slowest kiss yet. I unconsciously place my hand on his thigh as he draws his right arm around me, lying atop me. He kisses down my neck and my collarbone, revealing my shoulder as he slides the hem of my t-shirt, trailing kisses. I run my fingers through his hair, smelling peppermint. We are about to kiss again when the sound of the call for prayer stops us. It serves to wake me from this dream-like situation.
“We should check if the electricity’s back,” I murmur, caressing his hair.
He kisses the crook of my neck again. “What good’ll that do?”
“You could work.”
“I’m tired of working.”
I smile at him. “Won’t you get in trouble?”
“How will they know my electricity’s back?”
I smirk at him. “I could rat you out.” I flip him over, straddle him, and fold my arms over my chest.
He smirks back at me and runs his hands over my thighs. “You wouldn’t dare. I’d report you.”
I lift an eyebrow. “What would you report me for?”
His hands lift the hem of my burgundy t-shirt. “Misbehaviour.”
“Does this include calling you Doudou?” I intone, lowering myself to hover over his face.
He reaches up to brush my hair out of my face. “And turning me into a sinner.”
I blink several times and bury my face in his collarbone as I snort and start laughing. I’m quite literally lying atop him and we spend the morning (well, afternoon) in bed, not doing much but physically enjoying each other’s presence. We don’t do much more than cuddling and kissing, before we’re both hungry and thirsty enough to go eat.
¤¤¤¤¤
Late at night, as we are playing another game of chess, the same sound that announced the cutting of the electricity alerts us of its coming back. I bolt to my bedroom and turn on my phone. I find the missed call, but no message aside from the occasional Messenger chatter.
I immediately call my sister. It rings three times before she picks up.
“Are you okay?” I ask at once.
“Where are you?’ She asks back.
“I’m safe and healthy. You?”
“I am too. I miss you. Please, come back,” she pleads.
“I love you.”
I hang up before hearing the rest. I don’t want to argue with her. I want to leave on good terms with her. I lie back on my bed and sigh deeply. There’s a soft knock on the door. I pick up the chair I hurled three days ago and admit him in. He sits on it and I sit back on my bed.
“Are you okay?” He asks. It sounds like he doesn’t want to prod.
I figure he has a right to know. “My sister called my three days ago. I miss her but I don’t wanna be home.”
He shrugs one shoulder and pokes out his bottom lip. “You can call this home, if you like.”
I exhale sharply and smirk humourlessly. “Thank you. I’ll have to leave after the quarantine, though. That’s what brought me here.”
“You could stay beyond that. I could have just driven you to Maria’s after a day,” he observes.
I take a deep breath, focusing on anything in the room but his eyes. “I figure we’ll find out in a while.”
He presses his lips together and stands up. “I guess this is good night. You’re free to join, if you like.”
I nod. “Thank you… I think I’ll stay here tonight. I need to think.”
His eyebrows jump and he smirks. “This is never good.”
I chuckle and go hug him. I plant a kiss on his cheek as I pull away. “Good night.”
He smirks. “Good night.”
Day 18:
I wake up in his arms, and gently extract myself. I go to the bathroom and take what I call a 360-shower. The kind where I remove all the hair and exfoliate all the skin. I get out in his bathrobe, feeling fresher than I have in days, and he’s setting up his work computer. I lean towards him and kiss him good morning, which he returns mechanically. We got used to each other’s presence and each other’s ministrations.
We spend a day that quite resembles our earlier ones, where we weren’t so focused on how much we wanted to give in to our sexual frustration. It’s still there, but it can be calmed down. And we calm it down at every opportunity. Might as well, considering we’re quarantined together and we have already established our mutual attraction to one another. What I fear the most in our current situation is developing feelings for him. That would ruin everything. I love him as a friend, and he’s an amazing kisser, but mix in romantic feelings, and everything goes to shit.
I’m not just saying this to sound edgy, I know myself and I know how he is at work. And, worst of all, I don’t know how he is outside of work. I would get extremely jealous. I’d be hurt at not knowing what he’s doing when he’s not working or away from me. I wouldn’t want him to know all of my doubts, so I’d hide them and it’d eat at me from the inside. Whereas now, I only care about hygiene, and he’s great at it.
As I was saying, we spend quite a normal day. It’s as if we were married, in my ideal image of marriage. Exempt of romantic feelings that would poison the mood and create needless arguments. I admit my view is unconventional, but it’s what suits my personality.
We silently enjoy each other’s company, him working, me reading. It takes me a few hours to finally go wear pyjamas. I wear the second set of PJs I bought when I went out. A sky-blue tank top that’s kind of flimsy, so I’d need a bra with it. I wear the cute one (black with lace coming down the sternum) that I bought on that same day. The shorts, because wearing pants to bed would be nothing short of suicide for me, that I bought are dark green with back pockets. I wear my hair in two tight buns, when though it’s already almost dry.
I go back to the living room on tiptoe and rub Douaïb’s shoulders, sliding my hands down his chest and nestling a kiss on the base of his neck, just above his collarbone. He places a kiss on my cheek as I pull away. I sit back where I was and pick up my book, but his typing stopped. I look up to see him looking at me and quickly bringing his gaze back to his screen, a smirk lifting his beard.
“What is it?” I ask, genuinely confounded.
He exhales sharply. “Cute.”
“And that’s funny?” I ask, letting a giggle overcome me.
He slides near me on the couch and slaps his knees. “Come here.”
I put the book back down and go straddle his lap slowly. He runs his hands across my thighs and gives me what I realise is his most genuine smile. It spreads a warmth within me I haven’t felt in years, and alarm bells go off in my mind, but I shush them. This is a good moment, and I don’t want to ruin it.
I smile back at him. “Are you okay?”
He brings his hand to the side of my face and brushes a loose curl from the back of my neck upwards. “I’m more than okay.”
I kneel up a bit higher and kiss his lips softly. “As am I.”
He gets up, lifting me with him. “Let’s take this somewhere more comfortable.”
“But work—” I object, making him chuckle.
“I guess they’ll have to spend the last hour without me,” he smirks, taking us down the hall.
I vaguely recall seeing pinkish and purplish hues reflected from the setting sky and the harbour.
That night is different from others we’ve spent together. It is slower, fuller, and more intense. We don’t ‘have sex’; we make love.
And that’s what terrifies me.
Day 19:
I wake up sore and groggy. I go run myself a warm bath first thing in the morning. I wake up earlier than usual, so it gives me time to think. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, however, because the first word that comes out of my mouth today is one that’s been repeated countless times yesterday.
“Fuck.”
What’s the most painful about last night is nothing physical. It’s the realisation that I developed feelings for him. I need out, I need—
“Hey, you in there?”
I whip around to face the closed bathroom door, making rippling water sounds. I don’t want to hurt him, especially not after all he’s done for me. He needs me, too. I can’t leave him… Not like that… Not after last night.
“Hello?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, I’m having a bath. You woke early,” I remark as an afterthought.
“Bed got cold,” he muses. “May I come in?”
_Please don’t._ “Of course.”
He sits on the edge of the clear water bath in which I’m hugging my knees. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “You mean… am I sore or something?”
He nods. “Yeah… Any regrets?” He adds this bit as an attempt at humour, but I know he’s at least mostly serious.
I attempt to make my chuckle believable, but I can tell he’s hiding the fact that he doesn’t believe me. “Not a single one.”
He leans down and kisses my forehead. “I’ll let you enjoy your bath. I’m in the balcony.”
“I’ll join you when I’m done.”
And I hoped that was true.
I remember that day in flashes.
Me about to join him in the balcony, interrupted by my phone ringing.
Crying immediately, drawing him to my bedroom.
Jumping in the car with wet hair, on my way to the hospital.
Trying to ask for their names…
Fainting. Waking up with an IV drip. Crying some more.
I cry a lot that day. And he’s there. Near me.
I see her bruised face, asleep, bandaged head, IV drip, heart rate monitors beeping.
The only one I’ve ever loved, in a comatose state.
The ones I’ve lived with, dead.
I’m truly alone now. Alone, and wishing my sister would wake up.
Alone, motherless, homeless… Involuntarily, this time.
I don’t want to go to my dad’s. I don’t want to go back to Douaïb’s.
That night, I join him home to pack up my things. I’d already called Maria to ask if I could move to her place. He doesn’t understand, I explain I need a sister. He says he understands.
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In the Beginning: Part two
Chapter Summary: Dean is transported back in time and finds that his newfound grandfather may be hiding a secret that is key to Sam and Dean's predicament. While dreaming, he finds a familiar face. Castiel seems to have trouble remembering, and Ariel deals with her time in the Mal'ak box.
Pairing(s): Eventual Dean x Archangel!OFC
Warning(s): Self-loathing, Fluff, Angst, Typical Supernatural violence, Mild Language
A/N: I wasn't sure how to write this one. It isn't one of my favorite episodes, but still, the story is essential. Thanks to everyone who is keeping up with the fic. This episode will have LOTS of Dean x Ariel content, teehee.
Beta'd by Katieartist
Word count: 2,742
◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇
After tracking Mary and John to a diner, Dean finds out that his mother was a hunter. Dean persuaded Mary to let him talk with her dad, his grandfather. There, his elder quizzed him on how to hunt the supernatural.
Mary's father sat in a recliner chair, studying a lore book as he acknowledged Dean. "So, you're a hunter?" He mocked, "Well, tell me something, mister hunter, you kill vampires with wooden stakes or silver?"
Dean grinned at his forwardness, "Neither. You cut their heads off. So, do I pass your test?" He poked.
"Yep." Samuel retorted while also closing the lore book in annoyance and tossing it on the small coffee table. "Now get out of my house." He snapped.
Mary scoffed at her dad's disdain. "Dad!"
Samuel ignored his daughter and made no effort to look Dean in the eye. "I don't trust other hunters, Dean, don't want their help, don't want them around my family."
In the background, Deanna prepared the table. "Knock it off, Samuel."
"He's a hunter," Sam replied.
Deanna strolled into the living room and placed a hand on her hip, "Who passed your little pop quiz, and now I am inviting to dinner. Are you hungry?"
"Starving." Dean replied.
"Good. I'm Deanna." She informed, extending out a hand for Dean to shake. "You've met my husband, Samuel, now wash up."
Dean looked at Mary with a warm smile; it made him feel nice to know he and his brother were named after their grandparents. "Samuel and Deanna?" Mary just gave him a knowing nod. He added, "Really?"
. . .
Everyone sat around the dinner table, eating dinner. Dean held a knife in one hand and a fork in the other. As he went to tear into his steak, he was interrupted by a light tap on the arm from Deanna.
"First time in Lawrence, Dean?" She started with a smile.
"Well, it's been a while. Things sure have changed...I think." Dean went back to eating, but before he could, he was asked another question.
"You working a job?" Samuel asked while pouring gravy over his mashed potatoes.
"Yeah, maybe." Dean replied vaguely, setting both forearms on the table as he looked to Sam.
"What's that mean?" Samuel snapped.
Dean smirked at Samuel's suspicions, "It means I don't trust other hunters either, Samuel."
Mary and Deanna shared a look of admiration for Dean's sass. The young woman chewed on her fork before speaking, "Hey, um" She cleared her throat. "Why were you following me and John?"
The chartreuse-eyed hunter sat his utensils down and looked to Mary. "Mmm, I thought something was after you, um -- boyfriend, but um, I don't think that anymore."
Mary looked at her father as Deanna began talking, "John Winchester mixing it up with spirits, can you imagine?" Deanna tittered while shifting her gaze to her husband. Samuel grimaced.
"I saw that," Mary mumbled.
"What?" Her father retorted.
Mary snatched her napkin from her lap and placed in on the table. "That sour lemon look."
The elder held up his hand and flashed her a nervous smile. "Now hold on, John's a really, really nice..." He took a long pause and turned away from Mary as he continued. "Naive civilian."
The young woman scoffed and nodded over to Dean, "So what? You'd rather me be with a guy like this?"
Dean gagged on his water, peering up at Mary, his mother. "What? No, no. No. I- I have...someone- I think" He coughed and lifted the napkin to his lips.
"You think?" Deanna smiled at his uncertainty. "Why not 'I know?' " She pressed.
The righteous man tightened his hold on the glass at her question. What would his answer be, 'Because she is an Archangel and is locked away in heaven.' They didn't need to know about that or her.
Dean pulled his lips into a tight line and nodded his head. "She's uh...tied up right now, with more important things." He stammered through that sentence, a few pauses here and there. The hunter cleared his throat to avoid any more prying. "So what about you, Sam? You, uh, working a job?"
Samuel brought his glass to his lips and gave Dean a shrug, "Might be."
Mary picked at her food and rolled her eyes. "He's working a job on the Whitshire farm." Sam's eyes immediately darted over to his daughter's ultimately giving her the bitch face.
"Whitshire--why does that name sound familiar to me?" Dean pondered.
Samuel leaned back in his chair as he responded, "It's been all over the papers --Tom Whitshire. Got tangled up in a combine a few towns over."
Dean shrugged. "That kind of thing happens."
"Except why was he on it in the first place if his crops are all dead?" Sam queried.
The young male hunter looked away in thought, "Demonic omens?"
"That's what I got to find out." Samuel affirmed, along with a nod.
Dean rubbed his fingers tips together to get whatever was left on them and then dabbed his face with the napkin. "What about the rest of the town? Did you find anything on the web-of... information that you have assembled?" Dean pursed his lips, understanding they had no idea what the internet was.
Deanna interjected, "Electrical storms, maybe. The weather service graphs should be here on Friday."
"By mail?"
Sam scoffed at the question, how else would it be delivered? "No, we hired a jetliner to fly them to us overnight." He ridiculed.
This just made Dean smile. Of course, it wasn't a laughing matter, but the tension just made things awkward.
"You know, it sounds to me like we might be hunting the same thing." Dean drawled. "You know if we go in there in numbers, we could take care of this real quick."
Samuel leaned into the table, "What part of 'we work alone' do you not understand, son?" He made his feelings clear. He didn't want Dean anywhere near their hunt.
The mossy eyed hunter got the message loud and clear. He shifted in his chair and flashed his family a sheepish smile. "Okay."
◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇
Dean relaxed on the motel bed; his mind overwhelmed by all that he has learned. His mother's side of the family were hunters. He had so much to tell Sam when he got home.
The man let out a hard sigh as he removed his shoes. He figured he should go shower, so he pushed himself to his feet and wandered into the bathroom.
Every minute he wasn't talking or occupying himself, he thought of Ariel. He leaned over the sink with both hands on each side. It wasn't often Dean looked in the mirror, but when he did, he despised what he saw. He bored holes into his own eyes, clasping the ceramic sink.
The silence was deafening; he hated that. His thoughts were very loud, so loud that it felt like they were screaming, clawing at his skull. He tore himself away from the mirror and began peeling off his many layers. He sniffed, wiping his nose as he stood next to the tub in his boxers.
His movements were slow, almost as if he didn't want to shower, but he needed to- just to clear his mind of things. Dean never liked being alone. Everything felt too big- too much. This is why he needed Sam. His presence made him feel less isolated; he didn't carry the weight alone.
Dean clutched the shower nozzle and twisted it toward the 'H.' The water carried through the pipes and out the showerhead, raining down on the ivory tub. Casually, he stepped out of his undergarments and eased into the shower. He slid the curtains closed.
In the shower, nothing else mattered; it was just him and his thoughts. There, he allowed his facade to crumble. Why couldn't things be so much easier for him and his brother? He spent 40 years in hell just to be brought back to stop the rising of Lucifer.
The righteous man stood utterly still under the scalding water. The water pressure wasn't the best, but at this moment, he did not care. He carded his fingers through his damp hair while also taking a deep breath.
All of the guilt pulverized him, resulting in tears. They fell in rivulets with the water, blending in. Dean looked to the ceiling through his tears and let out an unsteady breath.
"I can't," He choked out before taking in a sharp breath. "It- It's not fair." Dean tried his best to hold in his sobs, but they came out the more he prayed to Ariel.
"It's not fair..." He lamented. All he wanted was to live a normal life now, to be ignorant of what went bump in the night. He knew he would be happier; his shoulders would feel much lighter.
All he longed for was to hear that it will be okay even if he knew that it wouldn't be, but he had no one- Correction; He didn't deserve anyone, or so he thought.
Dean turned off the shower and reached for a towel. He tied it around his waist and grasped for his boxers. His face was stoic, the opposite of what it had been just only 10 minutes ago.
The freshly cleaned hunter eyed his boxers, debating whether to hand wash them or not. Not. He dropped his towel and stepped into the plain black boxers. He decided not to sleep in his shirt, considering he might have to wear it tomorrow.
Dean shuffled over to his single bed and flopped down. It was a tough day, a lot to take in. He let out a loud sigh and shimmied under the scratchy blankets.
It was nice to fall asleep and be hopeful of something other than nightmares.
Dean drifted off to sleep.
. . .
Ariel laid in the fetal position against the cold hard metal, attempting to use her wings to keep comfy. She had only been in the Mal'ak box for two days, and it already felt like it has been a millennium.
In these moments, she missed the noisy disputes and Lucifer's destructive behavior. She felt empty.
Ariel's wings seized as a low frequency from 1973 was picked up and traveled through her eardrums. At first, she had no idea who it was that would pray to her, but then she thought about the only human she's made contact with since leaving heaven.
"I can't," The voice came through, echoing in her mind. It was Dean. "It- It's not fair." He started again with a trembling tone. Was he crying? This forced the archangel to her feet. She could not give up on humanity and certainly not on The Winchesters.
Ariel clenched her jaw and pressed her bloody digits against the metal door, the cold prickling her wounds. She did not care.
"It's not fair." Hearing him cry broke her, and her true vessel's heart. What was she to do?
Countless minutes had passed since she heard from Dean. She kept her fingers pressed against the small fissure, searching for relatively anything.
After a while, her arm began cramping from holding it up at an awkward angle. She couldn't give up. Ariel just inhaled deeply, shut her eyes, and searched again.
There he was.
. . .
Dean relaxed on the hood of his impala, sipping a beer and gazing at the stars above. He never really stargazed alone, but he felt like he was waiting for someone.
"I used to do this every day with my big brother..." A voice whispered from his left. He nearly leaped out of his clothes but calmed once he saw it was Ariel. His heart skipped a beat when he examined her. She dressed nicely, and all her bruises were gone. She donned a teal 40s sundress with tiny pink polka dots. It had thick straps and bow of the same print in the center. Her hair neatly pinned up in a tight, curly pony-tail.
Dean sat up slowly with his mouth agape. "You aren't all bruised." He stated. It was obvious she hid her bruises for his comfort but probably for herself too.
Ariel perched herself upon the ball of her palms, a modest smile dancing across her cherry pink lips. She pursed her lips at his statement. "You are very observant." She mocked with a sweet laugh.
"Yeah, well, you don't make it easy." The male riposted as he slid off the hood and rested himself against the side of the car. He avoided eye contact with her, shifting here and there whenever he could feel her gaze locked on him.
"I'm sorry." Ariel breathed while also coming down from the hood. The archangel didn't mean to offend him. He was genuinely concerned for her.
"Don't." Dean uttered hesitantly, then came a long pause.
The jaded hunter finally turned to face the woman. He had no idea she was standing this close to him because when he turned around, he could feel her body heat radiating from her. Dean clenched his jaw once his olive eyes fixated on her doe eyes.
"I- I meant..." He stammered, trying to find the right words before he proceeded. "Why would does someone like you give a crap about someone like me?" The man managed to get out before he started to break down.
Ariel looked away for only a moment, just to find an answer to his inane question. It wasn't as though she meant to 'give a crap' about him. He was her mission and only that, but she supposed Fate had other intentions.
"You ask why a lot, and never just accept. I don't know why I care, but I do." Ariel put it as best as she could.
Dean stilled, his eyes capturing all of the small details of her face. The freckles on her cheeks to the curl of her lips when her face relaxed. She had a beauty mark under her left eye, hiding under her long eyelashes.
He curled and uncurled his digits as he began speaking, "I have to question the good things 'cause in this life..." He hesitated. "They don't come easy or without a price."
Ariel offered Dean a wan smile before she tiptoed to fling her arms around his neck. She pulled him into a tight hug. She wasn't sure what to say to that. What he believed was right, but it didn't always apply to everything.
Dean closed his eyes, accepting her touch with bliss. He leaned into her, burying his face in between the crook of her neck and shoulder. She smelled like cherries. This small display of affection cracked his mask. Dean wrapped his arms around her and pulled him deeper into his chest.
Ariel carded her fingers through the hair on his nape, gripping him as tight as she did when she helped raise him from perdition. She brought her lips to his ear and planted a small kiss to his sideburn before she whispered, "It isn't you that will be paying the price, so do not worry."
"That doesn't make it any better." The guilt-ridden man only pulled her in tighter as he talked. This felt right; her in his arms and them chest to chest. The only missing thing was to connect all of them to merge as one.
Dean subconsciously pressed his lips against the skin of her neck. He ran his tongue over chapped lips and went to kiss the same spot, Ariel's figure flickered and gradually faded away like a mirage, and he felt a sudden pang of emptiness.
. . .
Ariel fell to the floor, nearly breathless. "Damnit." Dressing fancy and hiding her bruises took a considerable amount of energy and focus.
She leaned against the iron wall and pulled her knees to her chest. Those little moments gave her a reason to fight the wretched contraption. Either she would have to tear it apart or hope that Castiel will break her out. She focused on the former.
The warrior raised herself to her feet and pressed her palms against the loose hinge.
. . .
Dean reluctantly opened his eyes and stretched his limbs. "Great..." He slammed his fist down on the clock, putting an end to the incessant ringing. The worst part about dreaming is forgetting that nothing's authentic. The scenery and the stars were all fake except her. The thought put a smile on his face as he started his day.
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