#I’ll start a new life somewhere else it’ll be like a hunt to find which account I moved to

[rosetherat]

Hi my babas my little scrunglies have the draculaura doodles while you can for one day I will stop posting and you’ll all be left to wonder what happened to me I could be living my life happily or be like dead and you’ll never know because I only use this thing to show my art sometimes

[spockandawe]

Well, this is interesting! So, in that post yesterday, there was one line that really baffled me, a thing about people brushing off a character as an asshole “because he shows literally zero growth.” I kind of set that aside because it was such a weird non-sequitur, and guessed that it was just someone’s sentences not quite keeping up with their train of thought, which has happened to me many times. Apparently I was wrong! I already spent long enough on that one post, I’m tired of talking about that, but this is new and interesting. 

Okay. I kind of wanted to see if I could talk about this purely in terms of abstracts and not characters, but I don’t think it’ll work. It would be frustrating to write and confusing to read. It’s about Jiang Cheng. Right up front: This isn’t about whether or not he’s an abuser. Frankly, I don’t think it’s relevant. This also isn’t about telling people they should like him. I don't care whether anyone else likes him or not. But I do like him, and I am always fascinated by dissecting the reasons that people disagree with me. And the process of Telling Stories is my oldest hyperfixation I remember, which will become relevant in a minute.

I thought I had a good grasp on this one, you know? Jiang Cheng makes it pretty obvious why people would dislike Jiang Cheng. But then the posts I keep stumbling over were making weird points, culminating in that “literally zero growth” line.

So! What happened is that someone wrote up a post about how Jiang Cheng’s character arc isn’t an arc, it’s stagnation. It’s a pretty interesting read, and I broadly agree with the larger point! The points where I would quibble are like... the idea that it’s absolute stagnation, as opposed to very subtle shifts that still make a material difference. But still, cool! The post was also offered up as a reason why OP was uninterested in writing any more Jiang Cheng meta, which I totally get. I’m not tired of him yet, but I definitely understand why someone who isn’t a fan of his would get tired about writing about a character with a very static arc. Okay!

Now, internet forensics are hard. I desperately wish I had more information about this evolution, because I find this stuff fascinating, but I have no good way to find things said in untagged posts, reblogs, or private/external venues. But as far as I can tell, that “literally zero growth” wasn’t just a slip of the tongue, it’s become fashionable for people to say that Jiang Cheng is an abusive asshole (that it’s fucked up to like) because he doesn’t have a character arc.

Asshole? Yes. Abusive? This post still isn’t about that. This is about it being fucked up to like this character because he did bad things and had a static character arc.

At first, that point of view was still deeply confusing to me. But I think I figured out the idea at the core of it, and now I’m only baffled. I’m not super interested in confirming this directly, because the people making the most noise about this have not inspired confidence in their ability to hold a civil conversation and I’m a socially anxious binch, but I think the idea is: ‘This character did Bad Things, and then did not improve himself.’

Which is alarmingly adjacent to that old favorite standard of ‘This piece of fiction is glorifying Bad Thing.’ I haven’t seen anyone accusing mxtx of something something jiang cheng, only the people who read/watched/heard the story and became invested in the Jiang Cheng character, but things kind of add up, you know?

Like I said, I don’t want to arbitrate anyone’s right to like/dislike Jiang Cheng. That’s such a fucking waste of time. But this is fascinating to me, because it’s like..... so obviously new and sudden, with such a clear originating point. I can’t speak to the Chinese fans, obviously, but exiledrebels started translating in... what, 2017? And only now, in 2021, do people start putting forth Jiang Cheng’s flat character arc as a “reason” that he’s bad? I’m not going to argue if he pings you in the abuse place, I’m not a dick. I’m not going to argue if you just dislike his vibes. I’m just over here on my blog and in the tag enjoying myself, feel free to detour around me. But oh my god, it’s so silly to try to tell other people that they shouldn’t like him because he has a static character arc.

I want to talk about stories. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to say, because it’s impossible to make broad, sweeping statements, because there are stories about change, there are stories about lack of change, there are all kinds of media that can be used to tell stories, and standards for how stories are told and what they emphasize vary across cultures and over time. But I think that what I can say is that telling a story requires... compromise. It requires streamlining. Trying to capture all the detail of life would slow down most stories to an unbearable degree. Consider organically telling someone ‘I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich’ versus the computer science exercise of having students describe, step by step, how to make one (spread peanut butter? but you never said you opened the lid)

Hell, I’ve got an example in mdzs itself. The largely-faceless masses of the common people. If someone asks you to think about it critically like, yes, obviously these are people, living their own lives, with their own desires, sometimes suffering and dying in the wake of the novel plot. But does the story give weight to those deaths? Or does it just gloss by? Yes, it references their suffering occasionally, but it is not the focus, and it would slow the story unbearably to give equal weight to each dead person mentioned. 

Does Wei Wuxian’s massacre get given the same slow, careful consideration as Su She’s, or Jin Guangyao’s? No, because taking the time to weigh our protagonist with ‘well, this one was a mother, and her youngest son had just started walking, but now he’s going to grow up without remembering her face. that one only became an adult a few months ago, he still hasn’t been on many night-hunts yet, but he finds it so rewarding to protect the common people. oh, and this one had just gotten engaged, but don’t worry, his fiancee won’t mourn him, because she died here as well.’ And continuing on that way to some large number under 3000? No! Unless your goal is to make the reader feel bad for cheering for a morally grey hero, that would be a bad authorial decision! The book doesn’t ignore the issue, it comes up, Wei Wuxian gets called out about all the deaths he’s responsible for, but that’s not the same as them being given equal emotional weight to one (1) secondary character, and I don’t love this new thing where people are pretending that’s equivalent.

When Wei Wuxian brutally kills every person at the Wen supervisory office, are you like ‘holy shit... so many grieving families D:’ or are you somewhere between vindicated satisfaction and an ‘ooh, yikes’ wince? Odds are good you’re somewhere in the satisfaction/wince camp, because that’s what the story sets you up to feel, because the story has to emphasize its priorities (priorities vary, but ‘plot’ and ‘protagonist’ are common ones, especially for a casual novel read like this)

Now, characters. If you want to write a story with a sweeping, epic scale, or if you want to tightly constrain the number of people your story is about, I guess it’s possible to give everyone involved a meaningful character arc. Now.... is it always necessary? Is it always possible? Does it always make sense? No, of course not. If you want to do that, you have to devote real estate to it, and depending on the story you want to tell, it could very possibly be a distraction from your main point, like the idea of mxtx tenderly eulogizing every single character who dies even incidentally. Lan Qiren doesn’t get a loving examination of his feelings re: his nephews and wei wuxian and political turnover in the cultivation world because it’s not relevant, and also, because his position is pretty static until right near the end of the story. Lan Xichen is arguably one of the most static characters within the book, he seems like the same nice young between Gusu and the present, right up until... just before the end of the story.

You may see where I’m heading with this.

Like, just imagine trying to demand that every important character needs to go through a major life change before the end of your book or else it didn’t count. This just in, Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg go through multiple novels without experiencing radical shifts in who they are, stop liking them immediately. I do get that the idea is that Jiang Cheng was a ~bad person~ who didn’t change, but asdgfsd I thought we were over the handwringing over people being allowed to like ““bad”” fictional characters. The man isn’t even a canonical serial killer, he’s not my most problematic fave even within this novel.

And here is where it’s a little more relevant that I would quibble with that original post about Jiang Cheng’s arc. He’s consistently a mean girl, but he goes from stressed, sharp-edged teenager, to grief-stricken, almost-destroyed teen, to grim, cold young adult (and then detours into grim, cold, and grief-stricken until grief dulls with time). He does become an attentive uncle tho. He..... doesn’t experience a radical change in his sense of self, which... it’s...... not all that strange for an adult. And bam, then he DOES experience a radical change, but the needs of the plot dictate that it’s right near the end. And he’s not the focus of the story, baby, wangxian is. He has the last few lines of the story, which nicely communicate his changes to me, but also asdfafas we’re out of story. He was never the main character, it’s not surprising we don’t linger! The extras aren’t beholden to the needs of plot, but they’re also about whatever mxtx wanted to write, and I guess she didn’t feel like writing about Jiang Cheng ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

But also. Taking a step backward. Stable characters can fill a perfectly logical place in a story. Like, look at Leia Organa. I’m not saying she has no arc, but I am saying that she’s a solid point of reference as Luke is becoming a jedi and Han is adjusting his perspective. I wouldn’t call her stagnant, the vibes are wrong, but she also isn’t miserable in her sadness swamp, the way Jiang Cheng is.

Or, hell, look at tgcf. The stagnant, frozen nature of the big bad is a central feature of the story. The bwx of now is the bwx of 800 years ago is the bwx of 1500+ years ago. This is not the place for a meta on how that was bad for those around him and for him himself, but I have Thoughts about how being defeated at the end is both a thing that hurts him and relieves him. Mei Nianqing is a sympathetic character who’s also pretty darn static. Does Ling Wen have a character arc, or do we just learn more about who she already is and what her priorities always were? I’m going to cut myself off here, but a character’s delta between the beginning of a story and the end of a story is a reasonable way to judge how interesting writing character meta is, and is a very silly metric to judge their worth, and even if I guessed at what the basic logic is, for this character, I am still baffled that it’s being put forth as a real talking point.

(also, has it jumped ship to any other characters yet? have people started applying it in other fandoms as well? please let me know if this is the case, I am wildly curious)

(no, but really, if anyone is arguing that bwx is gross specifically because he had centuries to self-reflect and didn’t fix himself, i am desperate to know)

And finally. The thing I thought was most self-evident. Did I post about this sometime recently? If a non-central character experiences a life-altering paradigm shift right near the end of the story (without it being lingered over, because non-central character), oh my god. As a fic writer? IT’S FREE REAL ESTATE. This is the most fertile possible ground. If I want to write post-canon canon-compliant material, adsgasfasd that’s where I’m going to be looking. Okay, yeah, the main couple is happy, that’s good. Who isn’t happy, and what can I do about that? Happy families are all alike, while every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way, etc.

It’s not everyone’s favorite playground, but come on, these are not uncommon feelings. And frankly, it’s starting to feel a little disingenuous when people act like fan authors pick out the most blameless angel from the cast and lavish good things upon them. I’m not the only one who goes looking for a good dumpster fire and says I Live Here Now. If I write post-canon tgcf fic, it’s very likely to focus on beef and/or leaf. I have written more than one au focusing on tianlang-jun.

And, hilariously. If the problem with Jiang Cheng. Is that he is a toxic man fictional character who failed to grow on his own, and is either unsafe or unhealthy to be around. If the problem is that he did not experience a character arc. If these people would be totally fine with other people liking him, if he improved himself as a person. And then, if authors want to put in the (free! time-consuming!) work of writing that character development themselves. You would think that they would be lauded for putting the character through healthier sorts of personal growth than he experienced in canon. Instead, I am still here writing this because first, I was bothered by these authors being named as “freaks” who are obsessed with their ‘uwu precious tsundere baby’ with a “love language of violence,” and then I was graciously informed that people hate Jiang Cheng because he experiences no character growth.

[teamddixon]

A New Normal

Summary: Set in the future of the TWD timeline, this story follows Daryl, Y/N and her brother through their journey in the world of the undead. It wasn’t like Daryl to let people in to his heart easily, but it was Y/N’s smiles that had captured him completely, and before he knew it, there wasn’t a scenario Daryl could think of about his future that didn’t have Y/N in it.

A/N: Hi guys, this is my first time writing a fic of our TWD badass, Daryl Dixon. It’s gonna be a long one, and a work in progress. I write because it makes me happy, and I hope it’ll make you happy too. The intro for this fic would be pretty long, and Daryl wouldn’t appear until slightly later, but I thought it would be important to touch on Y/N and her brother’s background since we already know Daryl’s background pretty well. I’m not a zombie apocalypse expert, and neither dare I call myself a TWD expert (I’m not, please pardon me if I get some facts wrong!), so some parts of the story may not be realistic. It is most certainly strayed from the current universe since this is meant to be set in the projected timeline after the eventual season 11, which of course we don’t know yet how Daryl’s narrative would be changed or if it would at all, (or do we?), so this story may or may not make sense after season 11 ends (maybe think of this as a spin off?). I do hope you like it, and don’t mind the fact that it is set way in the future of the universe. As mentioned, it’s still a work in progress and I don’t know how many parts it’ll be. But writing this is extremely cathartic for me so I’ll continue writing for as long as my brain (and my full time job) allows.  Comments and feedback are welcomed and appreciated! Please sit back and enjoy this journey with Daryl. :)

Photo is not mine. All mistakes in this are mine, please pardon them. 

There aren’t many moments in Y/N’s life where she’d just sit on a spot, completely and utterly at a loss. The camp where she’d called home for the last month was gone – just like that. Along with it, the people she considered her family. When an unexpected rogue herd of walkers stumbled across the cabin, she was out on a supply run with her older brother, Andrew. By the time they had came back, the cabin was in shambles and the smell of the dead overpowered their senses. Y/N stood rooted to the ground in shock behind the bushes, throwing a look of fear at Andrew. Biting back a scream, knowing it’ll give her position away, Y/N looked around, hoping to see a familiar face. A familiar face that was alive. There was none. It was too late for them to do anything to salvage their family, their home. There were too many walkers to take on and honestly, nothing much left for salvation.

Y/N had no idea how long she was behind the bushes watching the dead feeding on mangled bodies of people she once knew. She knew she had to move, but her feet wouldn’t allow. It was as if they were locked in position, trapped in the nightmare of a scene before her. The only comfort she could gather was seeing quite a number of fallen walkers with slash marks on their heads – meaning they had put up a strong fight against them.

“Come on, we got to go.” Andrew’s voice called out, his hand grabbing hers nudging her to move. There was a catch in his voice, although he tried to hide it. Still in shock and tears, Y/N willed her legs to move. Just one foot in front of another, just one foot in front of another. She had to keep her mind focused on what was in front, and to keep her legs moving forward. Y/N followed him, almost in complete auto-pilot. 

Without actually knowing how long or how she even managed to keep in tandem with her brother’s pace with her state of mind, he had led Y/N to a spot in the woods where the two of them finally crashed on the hard grounds. Y/N was shaking violently as she buried her heads between her knees. She had no idea if she was shaking because of the nip in the air, or because of shock. A low growl shook her awake from her reverie. She looked up to see a lone walker approaching from the right. Reaching for her hunting knife from her belt holster with her shaky hands proved to be a tremendous task. Y/N finally managed to unsheathe the knife and plunged it hard into the walker’s temple right before its jaw got onto her. She had no idea she still had that strength somewhere in her.

“Are you okay?” Andrew had walked over to her just in time to plunge his machete into the head of another walker that had approached Y/N from her blind spot. “Thanks. I didn’t see it coming.” Y/N mustered her strength and stood up before kicking the walker in its head with a mixture of anger and disbelief.

“I don’t, I cant –“ Y/N finally allowed herself to sob into Andrew’s shirt. While there were only a few people in the group to begin with, she have had time to know them through this shitstorm and had grown to like them like her own family. They were the people she had been moving with for years. They had lost some people in their journey, but they’d never lost all of them entirely before. To lose them all at once was devasting. But all in all, she was glad her brother was there. Andrew was fiercely protective of her, especially in this new world. She wouldn’t be alive and standing today if not for him. All her survival skills, her knife works, hunting and tracking skills, had all came from him. Y/N was not prepared for this world at all. Without Andrew, she would have become one of the walkers a long time ago. But she was a fast learner, and had more than proven her survival skills. Despite all that, she never lost her sense of hope and cheerfulness, that was until that day.

She was thankful for Andrew for giving her the time to grief while he single-handedly took down more than a dozen walkers while she was still in a daze. She felt horrible, leaving her brother to keep her alive knowing he needed his time to process everything too. Andrew didn’t say anything, he just kept her alive.

Nightfall brings another set of danger – the temperature had dipped drastically. Y/N worked with her brother to build a makeshift shelter with leaves and twigs. Andrew had also got a small fire going to provide a bit of warmth. If the walkers doesn’t get to them, the elements most certainly would. Satisfied with the perimeters, lined with makeshift cans and marbles to alert them when any walkers enter the camp, Andrew gestured for Y/N to sleep while he kept watch.

Y/N tucked herself in next to the small fire and tried to sleep. But of course sleep eluded her. Every time she had her eyes closed, all she could see was the grotesque bodies of her friends back in the cabin. She kept your eyes close despite that, hoping to catch at least a little sleep. Y/N knew she would be in no state to fight for survival without rest. Andrew sat next to the fire and finally allowed himself to process the events of the day. Most of the people in the group had been his friends since he was a child. He had grown up with them, went through triumphs and heartbreaks together. Losing them was painful. Losing them and not being able to do anything for them was painful. He looked at Y/N who had now finally fallen asleep and willed himself to stay strong. He couldn’t – he wouldn’t let the same thing happen to his sister. Y/N was his only family left.

Three hours into Y/N’s fitful sleep, she woke up in a pool of sweat despite the night cold. Before this all happened, Y/N always slept like a log. An earthquake could literally be breaking her room down and she would have no idea. But in this new normal, her body had adjusted itself to wake up within a few hours and it had learned to survive on a couple hours of sleep each night.

She saw Andrew throwing logs into the fire to keep it going. Approaching him silently, she gestured for him to sleep while she took over the watch. Nodding his head, he vacated his space before taking over hers. Y/N was on high alert, determined to keep her brother safe while he catch his much needed rest. Andrew had been there for Y/N all her life. She was only a couple of years younger so they were very close since young. This trip was supposed to be a break from work, but instead, they were thrown with an even bigger shitstorm than they could imagine. Y/N almost laughed when she thought about the irony. She would choose to go back to her office job any day over this. Before long, the cackle of the fire begin to diminish as the day broke. Y/N looked up at the skies, trying hard to fathom how this was the very same sky before the world had turned into hell. The sun still came up in the East and the morning birds still sang, but nothing else about the world right now was the same.

Gathering up all of their belongings, Y/N and Andrew set off for another day. They had to find a more permanent shelter, a sturdier shelter than twigs and leaves at least. Stopping by the creek to gather some water, Y/N took the chance to splash herself with the cold water. As the water hit her face, she perked up. Having not had a shower for days, Y/N’s skin was starting to itch and peel. Her feet was swollen with blisters and her arms were filled with dried scabs from all the cuts she sustained while running away from walkers. Y/N looked at Andrew with a longing in her eyes. She needed that shower. Convinced that the area was free of walkers, Andrew gave in and gave her privacy while Y/N washed yourself. He told her he would try to track something for their food today and set off with his bag, gesturing for Y/N to follow when she was done. A smile almost crept up Y/N’s face as she washed away days of sweat, dirt, and walker blood off her body. She hadn’t dared to take her time though. Once she was done, she quickly put on a fresher set of clothes that she had and set out to look for Andrew.

Feeling more refreshed, Y/N tried to put on a new perspective of how life was going to be moving forward. She was determined to continue living, living for the friends who couldn’t. She was going to continue living for Andrew. She didn’t want all of Andrew’s effort teaching her survival to go to waste. Y/N followed the tracks on the floor, hoping to find Andrew soon. No more than 10 minutes into following the tracks, she heard a slight ruffle of leaves to her left. It was so slight it was almost unnoticeable. It can’t have been a walker – a walker would have made a louder noise than that. It was most certainly a person. She smiled and moved towards the direction where she heard the sound from, anticipating to see Andre.

“Hey, did you managed to –“ Y/N’s whispers faltered into complete silence when a tall, crossbow donning man with striking blue eyes, greeted her. The man had his crossbow trained on Y/N’s head. She stopped in her tracks, knife in hand ready to strike.

“Who are you?” The man demanded. Not only was his crossbow trained on Y/N, his eyes were trained on her too.

“Y/N.” She spoke calmly, hand still steady on the knife. While she knew she’d be dead with his arrow before she could attack him with the knife, she weren’t about to go down without a fight if she had to. Y/N looked at the man, trying to download as much details about him as she could. He wore a long sleeves black shirt with two top buttons missing, a pair of cargo pants that were slightly ripped on some parts and his boots carried the obvious evidence of blood and someone who had been out in the open. Y/N tried not to wince as she stared directly into the man’s eyes. Although his hair covered the side of his face, she could make out his stern expression – an expression of someone who had been surviving on his own. But behind all that, she just had a sense, a strange and unspoken sense that he wasn’t a dangerous man.

“Look, I’m just looking for my brother, all right? I don’t mean to walk into your zone.” Y/N explained. “If you promise not to shoot me, I’ll just turn around and be on my way.”

Adrenaline from meeting a lone stranger in the woods had had blood rushing to her ears, muffling her surrounding sounds. As she prepared to turn and leave, the man spoke again. “Behind ya!” That was when she heard it – the unmistakable sound of a walker behind her. As a reflex, Y/N bent her body forward and side stepped, but in her haste to evade the walker, she had missed her footing. Y/N cursed under her breath but quickly regained her posture. She raised her arm, ready to strike, but before she could, the walker’s dead weight had pushed her, causing her to fall backwards on the hard ground, losing her knife in the process. Y/N quickly worked to fight the walker off but all she heard was the hustling sound of an arrow and the silenced growl from the walker. Feeling the full weight of the walker now, she pushed it off and saw that it had an arrow right smack between it’s eyes. Y/N turned to look at the man as he approached the walker. With one foot on the walker’s head, he pulled out the arrow with one swift motion with his free hand. He then turned sideways to look at Y/N.

“That was really cool.” Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle slightly. Seeing that the man had made no move to point his crossbow at her again, Y/N relaxed. She spotted and dug out her knife that had been partially buried during the fall and tussle with the walker.

“That was really cool.” Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle slightly. Seeing that the man had made no move to point his crossbow at her again, Y/N relaxed. She spotted and dug out her knife that had been partially buried during the fall and tussle with the walker.

“Thanks. I owe you.” Y/N gestured to the walker on the ground as she dusted herself off. “What’s your name?” She smiled.

Daryl was immediately captivated by Y/N’s smile and the sound of her chuckles. Earlier when he had heard someone approaching, he was ready to strike, ready to take them down if he had to. But as he heard Y/N’s voice for the first time, he knew immediately that she was no threat. He hadn’t seen or heard another person’s voice for days. But even if he had, there was something about Y/N’s voice and her smiles that enchanted him. Despite the situation the world was in, Daryl was comforted to see a smile that seemed to make him forget everything else.

“Daryl.”

“I’m sorry again, you know, for walking into you.”

“Sorry for ta’ crossbow on ya head.” Daryl nodded his head slightly at Y/N as apology.

“We’re even then.” Y/N smiled again. It was nice meeting someone else in this crazy world of the dead. Something about Daryl had made her feel a sense of comfort and calm, despite just meeting him a few minutes ago. Daryl looked away, feeling his face flushed from seeing her smiles. There had never been anyone who had that effect on him before. Her smiles were a huge contrast to everything he had come to know in the last ten years. He wanted nothing but to remember them.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief,@whiskeycherrypie donated $25, and requested Sam/Dean, very late seasons, switching. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

The second hunt, after, is when things start to feel real again.

First job was the shapeshifter and even after just a few weeks of post-almost-apocalypse vacation they were rusty, as much as they ever got rusty. Sam broke his damn finger, which Dean made fun of him for, and Dean limped around on a half-busted shin that Sam can just stop smirking about, any time now, but they felt—like what? Hard to pin down. Like they were stepping out into a strange world. Like they'd fire a gun and didn't know if it'd recoil the same way it always would, because the world was different. New. At least, Dean kept feeling that way, and he thinks he's known Sam long enough to guess Sam was feeling about the same. Every part of that job was—feeling for a step down in the dark, and then being surprised when it was there. Sam flicking through the local paper checking obits, cautious when he pointed out a possible connection, like he hadn't done the same thing a hundred, thousand, times before. Dean going through the trunk and pulling out their supplies and holding a fistful of silver bullets in his hand and thinking—is this it? Sam, getting the motel room after, when they'd been to the Urgent Care to check out Dean's stupid shin that it turns out, okay, wasn't broken after all, and the woman at the counter asking what kind of room, and Sam hesitating, and glancing back at where Dean was propped up in the office doorway.

But it was right, in the end. They did right. They saved most of a day and killed the bad thing and it turned out that after everything they were still the same guys they always were. After the world ended it was supposed to be maybe something else, but, shit, the world didn't quite end after all, and it turned out… Sam gave his stupid shin a few more days to rest up and kept his finger splinted and then after a week there was Sam, laptop open on the table when Dean came in for breakfast, and he said, "Hey, you want to work?" with every expectation that Dean would, and that—that was new, kind of, in the way that Sam wasn't trying to distract himself or Dean, and it wasn't to patch up some broken thing that couldn't be fixed, and it wasn't because they owed anything to anyone. It was because it turned out that after all this was who they were, and Dean looked at Sam over the island while he whipped up some eggs semi-capably (although he never used enough salt) and Sam glanced over his shoulder when the toaster popped and saw Dean looking, and raised his eyebrows like—what?—like this wasn't just the best hope of Dean's life being realized, finally, right here in a hole in the ground at eight in the morning, on the wrong side of forty. "What's the job?" was all Dean said, then, and then—that was it. That was that.

Second hunt's a success, too. Vetalas, in Wyoming. Dean hates Wyoming. Not for the people or the scenery or the weather, even, though the weather can be a bitch, but because you can't get anywhere with a damn mountain leaping up into the middle of the highway and having to drive three hours the wrong direction to get to where you're going. Sam has heard this argument, and rolls his eyes mostly, but this time, this second hunt, he laughs, and stretches out in the passenger seat with the window rolled down and his elbow hanging out, and it's summer and he's stripped out of his jacket and has his sleeves rolled up and he just looks—good. Dean recites his lines: "Lander to Pinedale should be, what, forty minutes, but no, we gotta drive a hundred miles out of the way to get around this stupid—" and Sam sighs and says his line, which is, "Don’t you like driving?" and Dean says, "Don't get facts in the way here, man, that is not the issue—" and it's… the same ruts, the same life, but Sam's face is all folded up in glad creases, his dimple carved in so deep it looks like it's going to set up residence there full-time, and Dean eases off the gas a little, stretches out the drive, even if it's around the same damn mountain they've circled three times, looking for the same damn vetalas. They find them, of course, and they kill them, and they find three men drained of life in the cellar at their cabin but there are two more that Sam and Dean save, and on the drive back to Kansas through the night Sam's not in that same sunshine mood but he's not anything but content, either. Dean had—he'd hoped, in some shriveled part of himself that hadn't really had much luck with hoping—and maybe the last few years he'd gotten some proof, that what he'd wanted was what Sam wanted, too—but to have the proof, right here, it's—he doesn't pray, really, but he says inside his head very clearly thank you, to whatever might be listening. It's all he's got. He hopes it's enough.

They stop for a booze restock, for stuff to make dinner, and back at the bunker Dean's slow, watching Sam unpack his half of the car. His finger's still splinted but it can probably come off, soon. He gets his backpack on his shoulder and his duffle over his arm and the twelve pack in the good hand, and glances at Dean, and says, "What?"

"Nothing," Dean says. Sam's eyes narrow in that tiny tiny way where he smooths it out so fast he must think Dean won't notice, but Dean's honest, here, and he smiles without meaning to, and Sam frowns at him but smiles back, confused. Dean claps him on the shoulder and Sam shakes his head, says, "Dude, what?" and Dean says, "Nothing, you deaf? C'mon, let's get the beer in the fridge before it gets any warmer," and Sam shakes his head again and says, "You're the weirdest person I know," and Dean looks over his shoulder and says, "Takes one, Sammy," and he's just—sure. Sure, all through his body, from gut to his heart to his stupid brain, always lurching, looking for the exits. What a thing.

Spaghetti and meatballs, for dinner. The sauce is from a jar but Dean takes his time with the meat. Half pork, half beef, the spices he likes, a bunch of garlic. Sam practically inhales it and gets sauce on his chin and Dean grins at him until Sam colors and says, "Shut up," and swipes it off with the heel of his hand, and then shrugs and licks his palm. They're on season two of Game of Thrones and they watch an episode, and Dean wants Joffrey to die and asks Sam to tell him it'll happen soon, and Sam just smiles and says, "Dude, I'm not giving you spoilers after how long I had to wait to read the books. Hold your horses." Dean mutters, "I'll hold your horses," and Sam raises his eyebrows, but Dean just waves a hand instead of getting into the bickering match they could.

They get fresh beers and Dean says, "Hey, let's—" and so they head upstairs to ground level, and Sam brought two spare bottles each, and they go around to the back side of the big abandoned power plant where there's an ugly concrete bench they hung out on, sometimes. Especially before, when the bunker was fuller than it is now. A place to be quiet, to breathe. To watch the moonrise, as they're doing now, and drink in quiet companionship, their knees touching because they both tend to sprawl, and they've never, ever minded each other's warmth. Even when they were pissed at each other, or when it hurt.

Dean holds his beer in both hands, leaning his head back against the stone wall. Sam's quiet at his side. A three-quarter moon, so it's bright enough to lay white-silver on the planes of Sam's face. His nose, a gleam of that goofy ski-slope swoop. His brow. A light shine on his hair, and brighter on the silver that's started to come out in it. Dean's always been a little entertained by that—Sam's four years and a handful of months younger than him, and it's Sam who's been going grey faster—but he never said anything about it because—well, it's just something, that's all. Sammy, with grey hair. He's so damn lucky to see it he can't really pull Sam's pigtails about it.

Everything else, though: fair game.

"Never have I ever?" Dean says, after who knows how long sitting in silence. They're on their second beers, anyway.

Sam huffs. "You're kidding," he says. He tips his head on his shoulder, looking sidelong at Dean in the dark. "Anyway, wouldn't you just get… trashed, at that game? You've done everything, right?"

"Very much underselling your weird kinky shit, brother mine," Dean says. Sam's eyebrows jump and Dean's stomach rushes hot, in a way he didn't expect, even if he's been halfway thinking, all day, about how they were going to get here. "Try this: never have I ever… ate out a chick during shark week."

Sam half-scoffs, weak. Dean raises his eyebrows back, and Sam says, "Seriously?"

Dean spreads a hand, expansive, and Sam says, quiet, "This is so stupid," but then, because Dean knows his brother very well indeed, Sam takes a drink, and Dean says "Ha!" out loud and shoves Sam's shoulder, and then says, after a second's thinking, "Dude, seriously?"

"It's just blood," he says, and it's not exactly defensive but there's a shard of it buried somewhere in there. Dean laughs, half-surprised and half-not. "Not like we don't deal with it every day. You should broaden your horizons."

"Oh, my horizons are plenty broad," Dean says. It's bubbling in his chest, now, ready to come out. This is stupid—"This is stupid," Sam says, out loud—and teenage, and dumb, but he feels… "Come on, your turn," he says, and Sam lets out this long exasperated sigh, but even in the moonlight Dean can see that he's smiling, and Sam says: "Okay, fine: never have I ever had a threesome."

Dean sits up straighter. "What, seriously?" he says, derailed, and Sam shrugs, and of course Dean has to take a drink because Sam knows that Dean—and then it's on, really.

Dancing on the edge. The things they know about each other, the things they might could guess. Dean kills his last beer on never have I ever had sex in a movie theater, and he tells Sam after that that he needs to live more, and Sam smiles at him kind of bitchy and then says, "Hang on, stay here," and Sam gets up and half-jogs away, disappears down the recessed hidden driveway that leads to the garage, and Dean sets his bottle down among the empties and rubs his palms over his thighs, letting the warm denim scratch him up, taking a deep breath. It feels too big to say. Even if he's sure. It's too big to even be true, if it's…

Sam comes back, quick, like he ran the whole way. He has two more beers and the bottle of bourbon they bought today tucked under his arm. "Okay, sucker," he says, handing Dean an open bottle and plumping back down on the bench. Their thighs are solid together. He clinks his bottle with Dean, setting the bourbon down at their feet. "Never have I ever…" He licks his lips, shine in the dark. "Slept with a demon."

Dean blinks. He takes a breath. "I don’t think that's how you're supposed to play," he says, and Sam bites his lips between his teeth and shrugs. Maybe he's a little tipsier than he seems, even if they're only three beers down. Sam takes a drink, quick, but his eyes are focused on Dean's face, the moon a little behind his shoulder, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek but drinks, too, and Sam lets out this quick short breath that—Dean doesn't know, what that means. He feels caught at something.

"Did you—" Sam starts, and cuts off. Quiet, for a second. Dean's cheeks feel hot. "I didn't mean… I meant on Earth, not in…" Awkward. The air goes out of Dean, realizing that Sam's trying to give him an out.

"Me too," he says, voice weird in this way he could be embarrassed by but—he isn't, and Sam's face turns away, and even with full moonlight Dean can't tell what that expression is.

He puts his beer down. "Never have I ever slept with a vampire," he says.

Sam's chin ducks down. Dean licks his lips and folds his hands between his knees. Sam puts his beer down, too, and braces on the edge of bench. There's barely enough room between them for his hand to fit; his knuckle presses against Dean's thigh and Dean licks his lips.

"Never have I…" Sam shakes his head, huffs. He looks up, out at the empty farmland spilling out from the back of the plant. His eyes shine, open, though Dean doesn't know what he's looking at. "I've never slept with a guy. On Earth, I haven't."

Dean bites the wet off his bottom lip, dragging, and then ducks down and gets the bourbon instead. Twist of the cap and a glug goes down—christ, hot. He coughs. "I hate the cask strength shit," he says, and Sam says, "Wuss," thin, and Dean could bicker back but it's here. Here. All this stuff he didn't know Sam was thinking about—things Dean kept secret, and things he didn't—and he didn't mean to dredge it all up at once but maybe it's better. Like this, in the dark. The night warm, smelling like grass and the weeds growing up among the fallow field, and Sam's knuckles still pressed up right there, where if Dean put his hand down he'd cover them.

"Do you remember that time in, uh," Dean starts. Swerving around the mountain, the long way through the dark. Sam's head turns towards his, a little. "Montana, I guess it was. Somewhere. You were… seventeen. That July. You got so wasted."

"Whose fault was that?" Sam says. Dean grins, makes sure it's wide and wicked, and Sam glances up at him and huffs again, more of a laugh this time than whatever the last one was. "That was when we invented beer bowling."

"Yeah, and you sucked," Dean says, and Sam shakes his head and leans back against the plant wall, tipping his head back to look at the stars. They did play, ten-pin with glass shattering because the only ball they had was a half-rounded rock. Then they sat out with Sam tipsy and Dean getting that way himself, only twenty-one and not quite as sure of what he was doing as he is now, and they just… talked. He can't even remember about what. They just sat and they were together and it was about the happiest Dean was that whole year. Like if he could just have that, forever, things would be okay. That was… god, twenty years ago.

"One more round," Dean says, now. Sam's eyes close. Dean leans the bottle on Sam's thigh so he can feel it. "Never have I ever kissed you."

Sam's eyes pop wide when Dean picks up the bottle, and takes a drink. He sits up straighter. Dean lets the burn of the swallow go all the way to his stomach, a bonfire there, and watches Sam's face as the thoughts flicker across it, limned in moonlight. Sam opens his mouth, and closes it, and he's not mad just like Dean knew he wouldn't be mad but it's still enough of a relief that Dean tips the bottle his way, says, "Technically, you did too, so—"

Sam takes it out of his hand but doesn't drink. "No, we didn't. When?"

Dean wipes his mouth, dragging his hand over his chin, and down. Sam's watching him. "After the second trial," he says, finally. Sam frowns. "Your fever was pretty bad. You kept talking about…" He shakes his head. All sorts of things Dean doesn't like remembering. About worth, and right, and being clean. Nonsense, as far as Dean was concerned, though he didn't know how to say it that way, then. With how it was. Instead he leans back against the wall and says, because it's true, and he can say it now: "I just wanted to… I guess, to prove something. How I didn't think of what you were saying the same way you did. How I didn't believe all that crap you were saying about yourself. It was bad and I didn't want you to believe it, either, and I didn't really know how else to… You didn't remember, though, so I guess it didn't do the trick. To be honest, thought I was a better kisser."

Sam doesn't smile. It was a pretty weak attempt. He stares at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder.

How it was, then. In the hotel, where Metatron was staying. When he found Sam on the floor and about had a heart attack. Sam's skin burning and ice-cold by turns. His body this huge out of control thing, being taken over by something Dean didn't understand. He woke up while Dean was trying to drag him to the bath, but he wasn't really conscious, hardly making sense. Babbling, half-frantic, trying to make Dean understand—how it was okay, how it was fine if he burned, if somehow the trials scoured the marrow out of his bones, because it was just right after all he'd done and all he hadn't, and it was a use for him, when he hadn't been worth anything in so long. Dean had told him no, over and over, and no again, and he'd slapped Sam at some point to get him to shut up, to try to shock him out of the awful monologue, but Sam didn't even register it, clinging to Dean's shirt while the tub filled, the sack of ice Dean had brought bobbing to the surface. It can mean something, Sam had said, nodding, tears in his eyes, trying to smile, and Dean wanted to throw a chair through the window but he grabbed Sam's face instead and he said it does and Sam shook his head, confused, and Dean leaned in against him, ready to cry too, and instead he…

"I thought," Sam starts, and immediately stops. His hands twist around the bourbon bottle. "I dreamed that."

Dean thinks of a joke to make, something about Snow White, but he keeps his mouth shut. He remembers it, clearly. Sam's mouth, hot and dry against his own. His hands clenched in Dean's shirt, and on the side of his neck. Weak and strong at once. If Sam dreamed it, what does he remember?

Sam looks down at the bottle for almost a minute, Dean counting it away with beats of his heart. A breeze picks up, light and warm. A cricket, somewhere, chirping and then going quiet. It could feel bad but it doesn't. It could be terrifying, but it's just—Sam, and him. Like always. Like it will be, always. He knows that, now. No matter what.

Sam smiles, eventually, for no reason Dean can tell. He wipes his thumb over the rim of the bottle and then takes a drink, two long swallows that are loud as they go down, and then he takes the bottle away from his mouth and puts his hand on Dean's jaw and leans in and kisses him. Brief, hot. Not dry. His mouth tastes like bourbon. It tastes just like Dean's.

Sam leans back. Dean takes a deep breath. Sam looks at him, very close, and Dean puts his hand on the side of Sam's neck, his fingers sliding into Sam's hair, and Sam's lips quirk and he nods and Dean leans in and kisses him, again, slower, pressing in soft with his lip plush against Sam's, tipping to make it good, and his jaw's cupped in both big mitts and Sam opens for him and it's…

He pulls away eventually. He must have been breathing, during, but he hardly sees how. Sam kisses the corner of his mouth, weirdly sweet, and his hands drag down to Dean's chest before he pushes back, blinking. "You better remember that one," Dean says, and Sam smiles briefly, but shakes his head, not letting them off the hook.

"I didn't…" What goes there? Dean could guess but he doesn't want to. Sam's thoughtful now, but his hand's on Dean's forearm, because Dean's hand is—oh, still locked there on the side of Sam's neck, holding on. Sam's still, doesn't seem to mind, and Dean lets his thumb brush over Sam's stubble. Familiar. The world new, and not-new.

Sam squeezes his arm. "Did you start the stupid game just to say that line?" Dean shrugs. Sam rolls his eyes, and detaches Dean's hand from his neck, and stands, but pulls Dean up at the same time, and this time when he kisses Dean it's—full, real, Sam holding him close and Dean lifting his face up for it and Sam getting an arm around his shoulders and Dean pressing his mouth open, just a little, licking Sam's top lip and getting a slow, deep inhale where Sam's close enough that he can feel it.

"Sammy," Dean says, and maybe there's more to say. More that should be said, if this is what—but Sam shakes his head, and says, "Come on," and scoops up the bourbon and his empty beers, and so Dean scoops his up, too, and follows Sam around the plant and down the stairs to the bunker and to the kitchen, where they drop the bottles in a rattle of glass into the recycle bin Sam insisted they get, and then Sam looks at him in the light, his hair a little rucked-up at the back from where Dean was messing with it and his mouth a little pink and his expression just… considering, open, honest, and Dean looks back, not trying to hide a thing. How can he? It's Sam.

*

In the morning, Dean wakes up slow, alone in his room. He has a shower, taking his time, and wraps up in his robe, and comes into the kitchen to find coffee made but no breakfast, and he pours a cup and thinks about eggs, or maybe waffles if he wants to wrestle that ancient cast-iron waffle pan down from the top of the shelf, and he's thinking mainly about the food but he's also thinking, of course, about Sam, and it's only about five minutes of him standing there with his hip against the kitchen island before the door creaks, distant, and then—Sam, in the doorway, shining with sweat.

Dean's stomach flips, very slightly. It's just Sam, soaked and gross after a run. It's every morning, like the last, except, of course—

Sam hesitates for just a second. His mouth turns up at one corner, a little rueful, and then he comes in and grabs his metal bottle from the fridge, and gulps water. Dean turns to watch him, coffee warm in both hands, and when Sam's done he leans against the fridge, breathing deep, and then says, "I don't know, it feels like it should be weirder," like he's continuing a conversation they were in the middle of without interruption.

"Nothing weird about being hot for my bod," Dean says, calm, and Sam snorts. He looks at Dean sidelong, and then turns and really looks at him. Looks, from Dean's mouth to his slippered feet, and it's not much of a view in the robe but Dean spreads his arms out, anyway, and Sam bites his bottom lip, half-smiling. Dean sets his coffee on the island, runs his thumb along the lipstick-red rim. "You know," he says. "It doesn't ever have to be more than this. Just… how we've got it. It's good, now."

"It is," Sam says, easy. He twists the cap back on to his bottle, sets it on the counter, and folds his arms over his chest, and he's still just looking but Dean feels, now, the difference in it. It's just Sam but it's also… maybe a new part, a Sam that Dean didn't really get before, and the consideration there, the curiosity, the attention, it's… He tilts his head back, looks at Sam right back. Sam smiles.

Last night they did nothing more than kiss. Dean stepped close in the kitchen and tipped his head up and Sam met him, one more time, and it was soft and a little strange and a little new, but it felt right, in a way that's been full in Dean's chest, from the first moment of Sam's hand on his face to—well, it hasn't gone away.

"I was thinking I'd make waffles," Dean says, still buoyed in it. "You want one or two?"

"Two," Sam says, and Dean nods, and Sam gets the pan down—showing off, tall bastard—and then goes off to shower, and Dean mixes up the batter and butters the pan and pours in the mix and watches for when the steam stops, eyes on the cast iron but his thoughts around the corner of two hallways and down a few doors, and when he's got four waffles stacked on two plates and he's wondering if he's gonna need to send in a rescue team, Sam comes back into the kitchen with wet hair and says, "I'm going to run a marathon," and Dean blinks at him, entirely derailed, and says, "What?"

A marathon. Apparently Sam's been thinking about it for a while. His runs, he says, in the morning, are usually five miles, but he's been running a little longer each time, and he's at seven now without much worrying about the extra distance. He wants to go the whole way. See if he can do it, he says.

Dean's busy smearing as much butter as he can feasibly fit into the squares of his waffle, but he gives Sam a look. "If I can, he says," Dean mutters, and maybe it's against usual policy to give Sam full credit but it gets a surprised blink and then Sam looking down at his own syrup-free plate with a soft curve to his mouth, so—worth it. Dean cuts a four-square bite and pauses, watching the melty puddles form on the plate. "So, what. Are you going to enter one of those city things? Am I gonna have to drive along the route with Gatorade and applaud from the sidelines? Are you dressing up as a moose for charity?"

Sam shakes his head. "I can donate to charity on my own time," he says, although to be honest Dean's now taken with the moose idea. Sam sees him thinking about it and rolls his eyes. "No. But—I can figure out a route with my phone. Just around here. Anyway, it can't hurt, for the job."

"Yeah, I'll let you chase down the next werewolf," Dean says, shaking his head. Marathons. His brother.

They finish eating about the same time. Sam sips at his coffee while Dean sucks maple from his thumb. "You want to find a job," Dean says, while Sam's piling their forks and plates together, "or do you want to go for another jog? Gotta get up to twenty-six miles somehow."

"Twenty-six point two," Sam says, standing up with the dishes in hand, and then he leans over and brushes Dean's thumb away from his mouth and kisses him, again, and Dean grips the edge of the table and Sam's shoulder, his mouth pushed open on Sam's tongue, sliding in easy like he's got the run of the place and doesn't expect an ounce of resistance. Fair enough. Dean tips his head back and tastes Sam, syrup-and-coffee, and when Sam pulls back his eyes are half-closed and he licks his lips, and his eyes drop to Dean's mouth.

"Weird?" Dean says.

"Should be," Sam says, quieter, but he stands up, and lets his thumb drag over Dean's jaw before he steps away, to the sink, and he doesn't say anything more when he puts the dishes in and stands there with hands braced on the edge for—ten seconds, twenty, thirty—before he turns the water on.

Dean could say something but there's nothing to say. It's weird. It's not. That it's not is weirder. He gets up, refreshes his coffee with the hot from the pot, says, "I'll look for a job," and goes to the library, and lets Sam think, with his hands in soapy water, and quiet to do it in.

There are odd stories—news of the weird never fails to deliver—but nothing so pressing as to drag them across the country on an urgent mission. Dean doesn't feel the need to fake anything, either, to yank out of the bunker on a long drive of not talking through the night and too-loud music and burying their thoughts into means/motive/monstrous opportunity. He sends some links to Sam's email and goes and finds clothes instead, finally, and figures—well, today's a day off. He changes the Impala's oil, washes her. Goes through the trunk, sitting on a stool dragged over from the garage's weird little office, and makes notes of what they're out of, what needs replaced. More salt. More holy oil. Or—not more holy oil, since they haven't seen hide or nor hair of angel or demon in weeks and weeks and maybe never again, and he sits, then, with the empty flask turning over and over in his hands, looking into the trunk, thinking about—how the world is, now. How there's downtime. How, incredibly, there are marathons to run.

In the library, later, Sam's reading on his laptop. "That thing in Pierre might be something," he says, without preamble, and Dean nods—it could be—but then Sam says, "I sent it to Jody, to see if she and the girls want to take a look."

Dean sets the empty flask on the table. Sam's eyes barely flick to it. "What are we gonna do, then?" he says, and Sam sits back in his chair, laptop lid half-closed. He half-smiles, looking down at nothing, and then he looks up at Dean again.

They sleep together that night. Nothing complicated. Dean's room, and the lamps all off but the one over on the table by the door, so Sam's half-haloed in amber light this time, instead of the white moon. Dean's shirt comes off but Sam's stays on, and they're still in their socks, and Sam leans over Dean on one elbow, touching his chest, curious. It's not romantic, or urgent, but Dean keeps smiling, and Sam finally catches him at it and whispers, "Shut up," and kisses him when he opens his mouth to protest that he wasn't saying anything. While they're necking Dean gets Sam's jeans open, and slides his hand inside, and Sam bites his lip but he's half-hard, and gets harder while Dean learns the shape of him. Sam rocks a warm palm over where Dean's swelling up and Dean rips at his own belt, unzips, and then rolls them over so Sam's on his back, and Sam grips his hips, looking up, his hair loose on the pillow and his face just…

After, Dean wipes his hand on Sam's shirt. "Dick," Sam says, and Dean says, "Hey, it was already a disaster, I just added to the general—" and Sam rolls his eyes and nudges Dean off, and pulls the shirt over his head, tugging it off careful from the back. Dean rolls onto his side, looking. Sam's shoulders, and his back. Muscle and, miraculously, no scars. His skin that same all-over bronze, like he's immune somehow to farmer tan. Sam tosses the shirt in the same vague direction that Dean's went and then looks over his shoulder, finds Dean looking. Half-smiles. He lays back, his head on the pillow, and tucks a hand underneath it, looking up at the ceiling. Dean just keeps looking at Sam.

"It should be weird," Sam says, after a second.

"It's a little weird," Dean says. Sam snorts, one corner of his mouth turning up. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

Sam's head tips, on the pillow. He looks into Dean's eyes, then at his lips. He reaches over and presses his thumb against Dean's bottom lip, and Dean lets Sam dent it, pulling, and then he flicks his tongue against Sam's skin. Faint salt, faint bitter. Sam drags his thumb down, wet trail over Dean's chin, and then settles his hand on Dean's chest.

This. This is weird. Sam looking at him, quiet. Sweat's still drying in the middle of Dean's back and he has the sense of what it feels like to have his brother's hand on his dick full in his head. The body part, though, that—matters, of course it matters, but it feels secondary to Sam just... fully present. That they're both in the same weird, weird boat, and that it could go on like this forever, and it wouldn't change a thing.

"I don't want to wonder about it anymore," Dean says. He gets his hand on Sam's wrist, squeezes. "There's—I don't know, man. There's a bunch of crap we should probably be talking about, freaking about. But it's…"

"Beside the point?" Sam offers, and Dean nods. That's it. Sam nods, too, and closes his eyes, and maybe that makes it easier.

Dean closes his, too, and it's just the amber-colored haze of dark, and the kinda-too-warm of the bed, and his hand sticky and needing to be washed, and vaguely wanting a shower. And he's an adult, and he's fucked before, and so it's also that one article about that disappearance in Winston-Salem that he's been half-thinking about all day, wondering if there's more—and then remembering that they're out of milk—and then, when Sam's thumb drags over his pec, under his nipple, the vague jolt of: Sam, and maybe that should be all that fills his head but Sam suffuses every other thought. Dean can't make any more room in himself than he already has.

"Did that woman in North Carolina disappear at night?" Sam says, after another minute.

Dean's eyes fly open. "Shit," he says, to Sam's frown, and they sit up at the same time, and then—it's them, and the job, and nothing's really, in the end, that different.

*

Sam keeps running. He tracks his step count with an app, figures out mile by mile how far he can push it, how fast he can go. Dean goes into Lebanon by himself one day, hitting the post office and the market and just getting some air, and then he rolls to a stop at the single stop sign and checks his odometer, and then drives—a square, basically, twenty-six miles around the farm-fields both worked and fallow, and he imagines what it would be like to run the whole way. He's run for his life, and he's run for the lives of others, but just to do it for himself—no. He gets Sam, most every way, but this one is gonna stay a mystery, he thinks.

"What took so long?" Sam says, when he gets home.

The milk's still mostly-cold. "Estelle wouldn't stop hitting on me, man," Dean says, hauling in his half of the load, and Sam rolls his eyes, and Dean slots the barely-frozen pizza into the freezer and stocks the eggs into their holder and then, when Sam's done putting the cans onto their spot on the shelf, tugs at Sam's belt-loop and gets Sam surprised and then leans up and kisses him, pressing him against the dry goods, and Sam kisses back good and pleased and open and then, when Dean sets back down on his heels, touches the back of Dean's ear and murmurs, soft, "If I knew angry old ladies got you hot I would have tried something different, last night," and gets Dean laughing, unexpected, tucked into the corner of their kitchen.

They've been slow with each other. Dean has more experience but he didn't realize how much more. Sam's not uncertain, not nervous—incredible, how not-nervous Sam is, and Dean got finger-shaped bruises on his triceps one day when Sam just held him down and kissed and kissed and kissed him, body-confident and knowing, smiling pleased and half-smug when he pulled back and Dean was nearly dazed with wanting him. Little shit. Still: Sam's not a virgin, not by half, but he was being honest when he said he'd never screwed a guy—on Earth, that is, and Dean knows exactly what he meant by that qualification, and it was a very very brief conversation afterward ("It doesn't count," Sam had said, firm and honest there too, and Dean had nodded because, after everything, he trusts Sam to be honest), and they left it at that.

It's Sam who brings up more. Dean's content to follow. It's Sam who gets Dean's jeans open one night, petting at the base of his dick and sliding down to cup his balls, long fingers and big broad palm, and it's good but it's Sam who hmms, and then says, "Mind if I—" and crawls backwards down the bed—Sam's bed, the mattress tipping with Sam's weight—and Sam who bolsters Dean's dick up out of the split of his fly and breathes there, eyes flicking up the length of Dean's body where he's propped on his elbows, briefly dazed. "Go ahead," Dean says, voice coming from somewhere approximately at the center of the earth, and Sam snorts, and fists Dean capably from root to tip, and then leans in and licks, flat and deliberate up the spine of it, a wet warmth that shocks in Dean's thighs and between his shoulders and sparking in his hands, making him fist into the blanket. Sam's eyes are closed, like he's concentrating. Dean tips his knee out wide and touches Sam's cheek, and Sam's mouth tips up at the corners, and he shifts forward and takes the head in his mouth and—oh, that. He doesn't quite know how to get his mouth around it at first but he figures it out quick, and he sucks the tip and licks under the crown and fists the rest and when Dean's close, clenching, Dean says, "Come up here," and Sam opens his eyes after who knows how long and they're black, practically, and he crawls up over Dean's body still jerking and Dean kisses him, licks the taste of himself out, and Sam breathes hot into his mouth and groans when Dean comes, looking down at the spill over his fist, and he says, "Fuck, that's good," rough and true. Dean pants through it for a few selfish seconds before he squirms down to return the favor, and Sam's mostly-hard just from sucking Dean, and he's weirdly a gentleman when Dean goes down on him, hands off and careful until Dean lifts off, gulping, and says, "Like you mean it, dude," and Sam laughs and then grips him and that's how they learn that Sam likes dick just fine, in fact, and that Dean likes even more how much Sam likes it.

Sam runs farther. Dean paces him, one day, when they fell asleep in the same bed and mostly managed to sleep through the night together, except for some moment around three a.m. when Sam kicked too hard and Dean threatened blurrily to murder him or dump him out of the bed, one or the other—and way too early after that, Sam nudged him awake, lacing up his running shoes, said, "Come on," and Dean groaned and pulled the pillow over his head and then, well, he came on.

Seven in the morning, autumn settling over the farms. Cold enough that Sam's breath fogs and Dean rubs his hands together, sitting in the idling car with the window down while Sam stretches his hamstrings. "You look ridiculous," Dean says, just to say something. Sam ignores him, of course. "How far are we going?" he says, instead, and Sam says, "Thirteen," and Dean checks the odometer and says, "Okay, Speedy Gonzalez, you just say—" and Sam says, "Go," and takes off, and Dean rolls his eyes and lets off the brake, and the Impala rolls forward, chasing Sam down the farm road, the sun glinting behind them so the whole damp stretch of gravel sparks silver. Nine miles per hour is the pace Sam asked for and Dean keeps it going, on the far side of the road while Sam lopes along on the left shoulder, and it's boring but not as boring as he thought it would be. He keeps an eye on the speedometer, makes the turns just behind Sam as the roads weave around the cornfields, the soy beans, the farm that's just gone to dead-dry grass that waves in undulating strange patterns in the morning breeze. He goes through Zepp one side one, side two, switches to AC/DC and cranks it during Big Balls so loud that a bird startles up out of the bushes by the road, and Sam laughs, coughs, keeps running. His pace doesn't slow, not by a step.

Sam stops, finally. An hour and a half, and Dean has to piss. He parks, turns off the car, while Sam breathes hard with his hands on his knees. "How was that?" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, still panting, and Dean can't wait any longer and goes over to the other side of the fence post and communes with the morning.

"Dude," Sam says, vaguely accusatory, but Dean only shrugs, and zips up when he's done. When he turns back around Sam's leaning on the car, sweat slicking his hair back behind his ears, and Dean raises his eyebrows and Sam shrugs. "That was good," he admits, finally. He's drinking the water bottle Dean's had sitting in the passenger seat the whole time. "Too fast to go the full twenty-six, but—yeah. Good."

He looks—content, again. Not smug, not even really glad. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, leans back against the car. Looks out over the little pond, the trees around it. Dean smiles, while Sam isn't looking, and then says, "Well, I left my gold medals at home, but if you want you can run back and get it—" and Sam rolls his eyes, and gets into the passenger side, and Dean gets to fake-bitch then about Sam's stinky sweaty ass on the vinyl, and it's a good morning, like they all are, anymore.

On the way home from a hunt—Ajo, Arizona, and vampires, in what Dean insists is the most ironic job they've ever been on—Sam has Dean stop at a drugstore. Two in the afternoon. Dean heads for the booze aisle and gets a six pack, and swings through the specialty candy and gets some pre-Christmas stocking filler, and then he walks around the aisles looking for Sam, and finds him in—

"Condoms?" he says. Sam glances up at him, holding a box, unfazed. Dean feels the black orb eye of the security camera on the back of his neck and feels—surreal. He tips his head. "I mean, not to go all sex-ed, but it's a little late, don't you think?"

Sam snorts. In lieu of responding he turns the box around in his hand and—not condoms. Astroglide. Dean licks the corner of his mouth and watches an old lady go by with her little cart on the far end of the aisle. "Yeah?" he says, and Sam lifts a shoulder, says, "You have a preference?"

Long time since Dean's had to think about it. He hitches the six-pack onto his other hip and comes and stands next to Sam, looking at the options. Fire & ice, spermicidal. Water-based. Sam's radiating heat, enough to feel six inches away, and Dean thinks about Sam thinking about this: driving through the cold desert, both of them tired after a night of chasing down the vamps, planning to crash in Amarillo. A motel, in Amarillo. He feels boring, normal. Shopping, with a bag of red-and-green Kisses in hand, and the wall of intensely pink pads and tampons looming at his back, and his—brother, waiting, while Dean reaches for the silicone-based KY he used to buy, when he used to have to buy it. The packaging's different but he's guessing the product's the same. He puts it in Sam's hand and Sam looks at it with his cheek sucked in on one side, and then Dean says, "You want something with, I don’t know, electrolytes?" and Sam says, "Yeah," and so Dean goes back to the wall of coolers and pulls out two Powerades, and Sam meets him at the cashier with rolled bandages and aspirin to replace what they used up out of the kit during this hunt, and the woman at the counter glances at their faces as she's ringing them up and Dean says, smiling, "Can I get a two-pack of lighters, too, miss?" and she's like seventy if she's a day but the charm offensive still works, and she's over-the-top as she hands them their receipt and tells them to be well, and Sam's giving him a sidelong look as they take the bags out to the car but, shit, Dean's had enough people giving him looks in his life, and Sam gets to but just about no one else does, now.

A motel, in Amarillo. Raining in west Texas like it never does. They get tacos and margaritas at a hole in the wall and it's still early, when they get back to the room, and Sam checks the stitches on Dean's shoulder—still holding—and Sam takes two aspirins to help with all the bruising on his side, and then Dean eats a Kiss from the mess of the Walgreens bag, and then he tosses the box holding the lube onto the closer bed, and he says, "So," and Sam shrugs, and says, again, "You have a preference?"

Shadow of a smile on his face. Dean gives him a look and Sam raises his eyebrows, all innocence, and Dean says, "You're a dumbass," and goes over and pulls Sam in by that godawful orange jacket and kisses him, and then he goes into the bathroom.

He takes his time. Showers, cleaning up. Leans his forearm against the wall and leans his head against his forearm and pushes his fingers inside, on the thin glide of the little complimentary bottle of conditioner, reminding his body that this is—yeah. This is good. He comes out with a towel loose around his waist and finds Sam mostly-stripped, leaning back on the bed with the TV on mute and his hand in his boxers. Dean glances at the screen—ESPN, showing basketball highlights—and says, "Jeez, you got a kink you haven't told me?" while Sam snaps the TV off, and Sam says, flushed, "Not my fault you took forever," and Dean says, frank, "Figured you wouldn't want any Mr. Hanky guest appearances on our first trip on the backroads, but if you'd rather—" and Sam says, "Jesus, Dean," and Dean grins like an asshole, and Sam rolls his eyes, and—

Sam's screwed women like this before, turns out, and knows to go slow. Dean's on his back, his one leg caught over Sam's arm and the other curled around Sam's hip, and he's not sure slow is slow enough. "Fuck," he says, grinding his head back against the pillow, and Sam kisses his jaw, murmurs, "Sorry," and Dean grips his shoulders and says, through a groan, "No, you're not," and Sam smiles against his skin. Dean knew it. Little shit.

Sam lifts up on one elbow, touches Dean's cheek. He drags his hips back, pushes in. Dean breathes shakily out and Sam's expression changes. "Is it—" he says, but thankfully doesn't ask the stupid question. He leans in, tilting Dean's hips to a new angle, and pushes again, and Dean drags a hand down Sam's chest, and Sam's watching his face, he knows, watching everything, learning him, figuring out what he likes, like he has with every new thing they've tried—probably cataloguing it on some insane chart, like he's been doing with the running—but just now, Dean doesn't care. He didn't realize how much he liked this, or how much he could. "God," he says, gripping Sam's hip, "go—" and Sam, thank christ, for once does what he's told.

Sam sucks him, to finish him off. When Dean's spent, Sam spits to the side, and then slides back up, kissing Dean's nipple and then the sweaty angle of his collarbone and his jaw and his cheekbone and the very end of his eyebrow, for some reason. "Freak," Dean sighs, content, and Sam cups his other cheek and says, "Back at you," quiet, and Dean tips his head in towards Sam's and breathes with him. Sam's mouth tastes like dick and it's a combo Dean is extremely fond of, but that's not, anymore, anything new. He reaches down and holds Sam's dick—still slick, because this is indeed the good lube—and half-hard, and sensitive apparently after doing its work, from how Sam hisses, and squeezes his forearm. Dean says, "If anyone gets to complain," and Sam lifts up then, and watches Dean's face while he slides a hand back between Dean's thighs, and presses gently. Dean bites the inside of his lip but lets Sam try it, and after a second Sam—slides a finger inside, where he's busted Dean open, and Dean lets his knee fall wide with the slick sting, and wonders. How much he could take, if Sam asked.

In the morning, Sam goes for a run. Dean stays very firmly in bed. "How'd it go, Romeo?" Dean says, drowsy in bed when Sam finally gets back, and Sam says, "You know that makes you Juliet?" but then, while Dean's frowning and trying to dredge up a comeback, he says, "Sixteen miles, mostly eight miles an hour, and I brought back coffee," and Dean lifts up enough to see the carrier on the table, steaming, and says, "You're forgiven for the Juliet thing."

He has Sam drive. He's feeling—hard to pinpoint, how he's feeling. Still cloudy, over Texas and then over Oklahoma, and Sam's driving a regular level of fast so they're going to get home around maybe dinnertime. He's thinking about steak—they could stop at that butcher in Smith Center—when Sam says, "Hey, let me ask," and Dean grunts, and Sam says, "What's it like?"

No guessing what he means. Dean says, "I mean, my ass is sore," and Sam rolls his eyes, and he's not being a dick about it or anything, and Dean thinks about how to answer. What's it like.

What came before doesn't matter, so much. They already talked about how only Earth counts, and that's true for a bunch of reasons, but on a physical level there's just no comparison. Even on Earth, though, this was different. What came before was mostly something Dean was okay with, either because he wanted it or because he needed it or because he had a job to do, and he's not someone who dwells on shit that could be different, and he doesn't really wish any of that was different. No point in it, and it doesn't bug him. It was always better, though, when he liked the person, and he got that sometimes, and when he got that it was… good, but. Maybe what he and Sam have isn't romance, isn't some big sweeping thing like from a movie—if Sam tried to sweep him off his feet, or vice versa, they'd probably just bicker and then fall over—but. But. What was it like?

He's been quiet too long. "It feels good," he says, honest. Lame, and Sam knows it, from how he glances across the seat. Random section of I-35, while Sam passes a semi. Dean watches the approaching road rather than look at Sam. "I don't know, man. Hard to describe. When you're with someone and you're figuring out what works, what makes the fireworks, that's the same from either side. But it's…"

Quiet, again. In the corner of his eye he can tell Sam looks at him, and he shifts his weight. His ass does hurt. Sam's got absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, in the jockstrap department. That he can get used to; the weird feeling under his breastbone, this thing he's been carrying all morning, that's going to take a little longer, maybe.

"Jessica used to say she felt like she was taking care of me." Said—casual. Dean stares across the bench seat, can't help it, but Sam's just looking out at the road. One hand at ten, the other at about five thirty, his hair tucked behind his ear. His jaw clenching and then unclenching. "I don't know. I didn't get it—felt the other way around, to me—but I always… wondered, I guess."

Taking care? Maybe that's it. Dean finds he's holding his hand over the weird feeling in his chest and shakes his head. Last night: Sam's head bent next to his, Sam's chest against his, his back drenching sweat against the bed, his body loose-open finally to Sam's dick after so long of the punishing stretch. Sam's hips grinding in against his hard and low, and his arms around Sam's shoulders, and his eyes closed and just—taking, feeling the slick parted jolt and feeling Sam quicken and feeling, deep, in this jolted raw way, how Sam was getting close and Sam was winding tight and how Sam was coming, how he hitched and crushed in and breathed strange and didn't make any other sound but held Dean still and close and tight while he unloaded. With other men Dean was tired or sore or impatient, wanting his turn. Last night, he held Sam's shoulders and felt Sam's face duck in to his throat, and Sam's lips pressing there, and he put his fingers in Sam's hair and twined his leg around Sam's and wanted it to go on and on. Perfect.

"Guess you'll have to try it and find out," Dean says, after way too long.

Sam glances at him again, and pulls into the right lane, and settles in for the long drive. "Guess I will," he says, and he's watching the road, and so maybe doesn't notice the deep breath Dean takes, and lets out slow.

It turns out a marathon is not, in fact, twenty-six point two miles. "Technically," Sam says, while Dean's on his back under the Impala, "it's 26.21875 miles."

Dean rolls out on the bench to give that the incredulous look it deserves. On the stool, Sam shrugs. "Why," Dean says, "on earth, ever, would anyone care."

"It's the rules set by the competition," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes and slides back under the car. "It's just the length. Same reason a football field's a hundred yards."

"Isn't it the length of the run that Greek dude did?" Dean says, later, chopping up potatoes for salad. Sam looks surprised, but not as annoyingly surprised as he's looked other times. "Did the length of that change, somehow?"

"Dean," Sam says, patient, "I hate to say it, but I am not in charge of the rules committee for marathons. I'm sorry to disappoint."

During dinner Sam's doing math. 26.21875 isn't that much longer than 26.2. In March he did twenty-five miles in three hours and fifty-five minutes, looping back from the pond and then running way out to town and back again, and he's nearly there. "What's the difference between 385 and 352," he mutters, and Dean doesn't bother even attempting to work it out in his head before Sam says, "Thirty-three yards."

"Doesn't seem worth making a whole-ass rule about," Dean says, but Sam's just ignoring him at this point, probably looking at his dumb running spreadsheet, and that's fine. Thirty-three yards, Dean thinks.

There are weird old surveyor tools in one of the archive rooms. One morning when Sam's back from his run, soaking off the ache in the shower, Dean figures out how the hell to use the damn wheely thing, and he walks it off. He drags his boot in the dirt, right in front of the stairs down to the entrance, and then walks it out: ninety-nine feet, up the driveway, out to the gravel road. Almost exactly the length to the gate. Dean smiles, and walks back from the gate, and then marks ninety-nine feet precisely, with his boot and then with three stones, so he'll know.

Sam's planning for May 1. Dean doesn't ask why; he figures he can guess. They find a job, April 21, and it's a family of ghouls that's gross and shitty and time-consuming to put down, but they manage it on the seventh day, at least, so they don't overshoot the deadline. Sam sleeps in the passenger seat while Dean drives straight through all the way back from Pensacola. When they get back to the bunker it's two in the morning and Dean has to shake him awake, and he blinks in the barely-moonlight, and Dean has to say, "Up and at 'em, Sasquatch," for Sam to rouse, and Sam follows him down the stairs and into the bunker and through the dark halls and then, quiet, straight into Dean's bed, barely kicking off his boots and shrugging off his jacket before he curls over the pillow, sighing into the mattress. Dean stands at the foot of the bed, looking at him. Then he goes upstairs, and does the thing he's been thinking of doing for weeks, and when he finally gets back to bed he strips down to a t-shirt and boxers and slides in right up against Sam's back, and Sam doesn't wake up but he does make this tiny sound in his chest, when Dean's arm goes around him, and Dean sleeps, finally, like the dead.

Thursday's a slow day. Sam's not running again, apparently, until Saturday—he ran pretty flat-out a few times during the hunt, and Dean guesses that's probably training enough. Because he is, in fact, supportive, Dean makes food that Sam actually likes—chicken breast and broccoli and some stupid grain thing that he read was good for slow-release energy, and Sam says, "I didn't know you knew what farro was," which proves that in fact it's Sam who's the dickhead, but then Sam practically inhales all of it, so. Success. They watch Chariots of Fire so Dean can remember the stupid song, and Sam goes and does his weird yoga stretching after that, and then they sit together in the workroom and make silver rounds for a while, since Dean got a load of pawned shitty jewelry in and it's one of those chores that falls down the priority list when bullets are flying, and then when they've packed up the bullet boxes, and there's really nothing else left to do with the day, Sam stands up and stretches with his fingers reaching way up and his body arching, pulling long after the hunched work, and Dean's mouth goes wet, and he says, without much thinking about it, "Hey, Sam," and Sam says yeah without hardly paying attention, and Dean says, "I want to fuck you tonight."

Sam looks up at him. Dean lifts a shoulder and Sam takes a visible breath, and he says, "Smooth, Dean," but it's not a no.

Dean shaves, while he's waiting. He takes a whore's bath in his sink, and waits in his boxers just like Sam had, that first time, sitting on the little loveseat in his room. Sam comes back in a t-shirt and unzipped jeans and bare feet, his hair barely wet at the ends, and he frowns at first at the empty bed before he sees Dean, sitting, and Dean says, "Took you long enough," and Sam says, "Don't start."

He's not nervous. He lets Dean kiss him slow, though, laying together on the bed, and with Dean's hand in his jeans, and he's hard all the way and wet at the tip and a tight grip locked on Dean's hip before Dean finally slides his jeans down, feels. Damp, and a little soft, and small, and he rolls his hips back against Dean's thumb, making this deep sound in his chest. "How do you want it?" Dean says, and Sam shrugs and then laughs, shaking his head. "However," Sam says, honest, and Dean rolls his eyes and kisses him and then pulls his jeans all the way off while Sam pulls his shirt over his head, and Dean gets him on his knees, then, pulls his hips back, and applies his mouth to Sam's asshole, and that's not entirely new but Sam yelps, flinching, and Dean has to hook an arm around his hips and hold him in place to lick in deep, like he wants to.

"Tell me," Dean says, and Sam groans. He's reaching past Dean's arm, fisting his dick. His balls warm and heavy, and his body—open, yeah, from the shower, from prepping himself, from knowing how—from watching Dean do it, from doing it himself, sliding his fingers in and working the muscle soft and learning how it can be good. Sam's hips push back and Dean breathes out hot, ducks his head down, suckles one of Sam's nuts and then licks back up over the flattened-wet hair and the crinkle of his hole and scrapes his teeth over one asscheek, and Sam's hand reaches back and grips his shoulder and Sam says, deep, "Are you going to fuck me, or what," and Dean slides up, kisses between Sam's shoulderblades, presses his dick swelling up in his boxers against Sam's ass.

It'd be easier if he kept Sam on his knees. He turns him over instead, and Sam's—god, hot for it, his dick huge and curving up to his navel, his chest flushed in that deep way it gets when he's nearly ready to come, his eyes heavy. He props himself up on his elbows and watches Dean lube himself up, and when Dean slots a slick thumb inside Sam—still tight, christ—Sam's eyelids dip but he just pulls his knee higher, and reaches down and feels Dean's dick, fingers slipping over the head. He gathers his balls up out of the way while Dean pushes up between his legs, and he's watching down between them, avid, for the moment it happens. Dean watches Sam's face instead, and on the push inside—Sam's lips part, and his jaw loosens, and his breath stills, and his eyes—Dean pulls back an inch, slides in deeper, and Sam's face tips up and he meets Dean's stare, dragging in air, gripping Dean's thigh, arching. Dean gets a hand on Sam's jaw and holds him there, their noses brushing, and he feels it, the moment Sam's body ripples. How Sam lets him in.

Sam doesn't come from being fucked. Not that Dean expected him to. Dean holds his balls and kisses his jaw, his mouth, lets Sam bite his lips, while Sam jerks his own dick, and when Sam finally spills he groans, his thighs twitching around Dean's hips and his asshole rippling. Dean slides his hand up, following Sam's, squeezing and getting the wet over his own fingers, and finally his dick slides free from Sam's body. Sam says, low and surprised against his ear, ah, and Dean loves him, is all, and always has, and always will, and now is, really, no different.

"So," Dean says, much later. His head on Sam's shoulder, and Sam's fingers in his hair. "What's it like?"

He'd watched Sam clean up. His nose wrinkling as he wiped between his legs. Sam had said, "You like this?" and Dean had said, "The proof is in the pudding," and Sam had stared at him and then said, horrified, "Never talk again." He'd gone and got them both beers as repayment, and now those are gone, and they've cooled off but the bed's still kind of gross and smells like sweat and jizz and, honestly, Dean's about as comfortable as he ever is.

Sam's fingers go still in his hair. "Huh," he says, after a few seconds' thinking.

"Told you," Dean says.

Sam pulls, what little he can pull, at the top of Dean's head where he should really trim it up. "I'll think of something," he says, and Dean says, "Sure you will, Wordsworth," and Sam says, "I don't know why I thought this would make you less annoying," and Dean says, "It's a gift," but he's smiling, tipped in against Sam's side, and he can't see it but he'd bet that Sam is, too, or at least that Sam's got that dimple tucked into his cheek. Sam's hand spreads, cupping the back of Dean's head, and his mouth brushes Dean's temple. Yeah, Dean decides, warm. Dimple. Maybe two.

On Saturday, Sam goes for the run. His route's pretty simple. Looping west away from the bunker and back for thirteen miles; looping east and back for the other thirteen. The point two gets sorted out somewhere in there, as Dean understands it. He offered, a few months back, to pace Sam in the car if he wanted, and Sam looked surprised but then shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said, and Dean knows it's true. Still, he set out water at few-mile intervals—no one's out here, so unless a rabbit stole one of the stashes Sam should get the benefit—and Sam's pace is pretty damn consistent, so Dean knows when he'll hit the various markers, and knows when he'll be home, when it's done.

Sam stretches easily, on the stairs by the entrance. "If you twist your ankle a mile out, call me, but give me time to laugh," Dean says. Sam rolls his eyes, dropping his one foot and pulling up the other. "Do you want me to grab a pistol? Starting gun, or whatever?"

Sam shakes his head, and pulls out his phone. "See you in a few hours," he says, and presses a button, and takes off, and Dean watches him go, down the driveway, to the gate, and then turning and running from the morning sun. Nine a.m. Dean checks his watch, and says, "Okay," to no one, and goes back inside to at least do something with the morning.

An hour and fifty minutes later, Dean's leaning on the gate, drinking a beer, when Sam comes running back up the road. "Woo!" Dean calls, sort of sarcastic and sort of not, and Sam's breathing hard when he comes up but he steals the beer right out of Dean's hand, takes a few deep swallows. "Hey!" Dean says, and Sam shakes his head, burps abruptly, says, "Thanks for the water," and takes off again, and Dean checks his watch—right on time. Maybe faster. He finishes the beer, tasting Sam's salt on the rim, and then goes and sets up his minimal surprise.

He disassembled the bench those weeks back. Too heavy to move any other way. While Sam's completing the second half, Dean moves the pieces out of the side of the plant where he'd moved them, and puts the thing back together. Big concrete supports; concrete slab, that he about gets a hernia hauling back up into place. He's sweating, when it's done, but it's right at the end of the drive, just in front of his three-stone marker.

It's where he's sitting, forty minutes after noon, with a bottle of the whiskey Sam actually likes on the step, and two glasses waiting to be filled, and the sun coming down soft and easy, not yet hot or humid, not like it'll be later this summer. He stretches out his legs, propped on his arms, and watches down the lane while Sam comes around the corner again. Sweaty, tired, but keeping pace, and Dean doesn't mock or call out or say any of the dumbass shit he could say. Sam pulls out his phone, as he's running down, and Dean knows because he paced it exactly how many steps are left, exactly how far Sam has to go. Sam slows, as he's approaching the marker, and when his sneaker hits the stone he presses something on the phone and it beeps and he says, "Done," and takes a huge deep breath, panting.

He tips his head back on his shoulders, eyes closed. Dean watches him. His heaving chest, the sweat darkening his hair to black at the temples. His body.

"You set up a cheering section," Sam says, finally. "I'm touched."

Dimpling. Dean cracks the bottle, pours two glasses. "What can I say," he says, while Sam tips his head back down, tired. "I'm a fan."

"Sure you are," Sam says, tired. He sits down, finally, and takes his glass from Dean. Their shoulders together, and Sam's knee tipped against his. "Whiskey's probably the opposite of what you're supposed to have after a marathon."

"Well, good thing I'm not a stickler for the marathon rules," Dean says, holding his glass up to toast.

"Yeah," Sam says, smiling, "it is," and lets their glasses clink. They drink, quiet, looking out together at the warm day.

[tenderdean]

i was talking to @andromedaskyline about how we just know whatever this ending is gonna be will be—well, a punch to the gut at best, but then it got us thinking about what kind of ending we want for dean and listen. listen.

when all is said and done, dean is alive and well, and he drives off into the sunlit horizon, and at the end of that road after however much time he needs to recover—

he starts a halfway house.

a halfway house for hunters, yes, but mostly for kids.

kids like claire and krissy and josephine, and alex and patience. kids that fell out of their normal lives and into hunting, with no feasible way back out. kids like dean.

it’s a place to crash and recuperate, where there’s a roof over their heads and a bed to call their own and a food-stocked pantry (it never runs low. dean never lets it run low.) but also: a waypoint.

dean’s still got sonny’s number, and if there’s one person who can help a kid find a future or a family or a purpose, it’s sonny. (it’s also dean—but he’s not used to advertising himself; it’ll always feel like overselling.) he sits up late at night working through college applications, scholarship applications, to help these kids through the nightmare that is lying convincingly on paperwork. he teaches these kids all the things he had to learn by his lonesome: how to cook, how to clean and mend clothes and treat wounds and hustle pool without getting decked in the face. and if they’re set on hunting—and he gets it, he does, because retiring was never an option for him when there’s lives to be saved, and he knows how—then he rolls up his sleeves and he teaches them.

hunters are a special kind of people, too rebellious for their own good, but he knows not to push. anyone can leave, but anyone can also stay. and when they do, he’s got things to tell them: the fastest way to decapitate a vamp and torch a wendigo, where to park their getaway car, which weapons to always have on hand and which to leave in the motel room, never to leave a case too early to miss something or late enough for the cops to get you. who to call when they do. basic skills, survival skills, but there’s nothing basic about them anymore when they’ve amounted to his entire life and he’s perfected them, had to perfect them to stay alive through it all.

he’s seen things, butted heads with things that go unmentioned in even the thickest of lore books, and he makes sure they know how to take all of them down, or else how to sweet-talk it back where it came from. he makes sure every kid knows the vampire antidote by heart. he also tells them about purgatory, and to think hard before mercy-killing anything into an existence of blood-slash-blood-no-rest-no-peace. some things can save themselves: if they want to, let them, but make sure they follow through. it’s about the saving, not the killing, and if the two of them become muddied you have to save yourself first.

dean has a bed for you, in that case. a bed and a mean burger and an ear tilted in your direction.

sometimes, sam calls: dean lets it go to voicemail, and that’s a gift to them both. dean will leave a voicemail of his own, in time. he’ll talk for however long he wants to, about whatever he wants to, answers the questions he likes and doesn’t answer those he doesn’t. talks about the kids, all the time, about how much he wishes he could’ve done this for kevin. there’s no interrupting in voicemail, no pointed glares, and the new routine is maybe the healthiest they’ve ever had.

he still goes out on hunts, as a teaching outing with the kids or to let off steam or because it’s an all hands on deck sort of thing. he can’t let himself get rusty, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t indulge: memory foam on his bed, a monthly road trip in the Impala planned and followed through with, a nice, slim pair of new boots perhaps more often than he needs. it’ll take a while, but someday in the future, he even goes to the beach. leaves the united states to do it, and comes back toasty and bug-bitten and about fifty tons lighter by way of his soul.

it evolves, as kids leave and new ones come in, because no one can leave dean’s house without his number. it becomes a hub. dean makes sure there’s a weapons arsenal in the garage, stakes of various obscure woods and silver bullets by the thousand and machetes besides. they’re all for borrowing—he’ll get new ones if some don’t return. the rest of the garage is divided: the impala and all that’s needed for her upkeep, and a workbench, a visor, a torch. he works on side-projects. lets his inner inventor out to play. EMFs that can detect hex bags, glasses that fracture the light just weirdly enough that no ghost can slip past the wearer unnoticed.

that’s how, in ten years, he’ll reinvent the Colt. he makes as many bullets as he can, and it’s expensive, slow work, but it’s the largest ace any of them have ever had up their sleeves and he wants it to be available to anyone who needs it.

knowledge isn’t something to hoard, not when it can save lives. and fuck if holding the world together with his bare hands more than once, more than twice, didn’t leave him with some unconventional wisdoms, some hard-earned truths and bits of trivia that could never end up being useful but also very well could. he’s prepared for that. makes sure his kids are prepared, too.

it’s not just the kids anymore, though, not when the hunters among them have branched out and met other hunters and the world knows his name, anyway, for all kinds of reasons, good and bad. his is not a name that slips someone’s mind when it’s mentioned in passing. hasn’t been for a long, long while, and that was never a good thing until this: until it just grows around him, not murder-plots or resentment or a heathy dose of fear of being associated with him, not like a snare drawing tight but a garden. (he keeps one, out back. hasn’t really got that much of a knack for it, but some of the kids like ripping roots out of dirt, and hell, so does he.)

it’s not replacing bobby. he doesn’t pretend to be the FBI superintendent or social services or someone’s lawyer, not when he’s not out there in a suit. when a phone rings, the person on the other end always knows his name.

it starts out messy, and it’ll always be messy, but it becomes more structured as they go. a demon case comes in: they’ve got people specializing in that, send them out. a rugaru: the same. and if it’s something that’s truly Out There, they send dean, and he’ll handle that. when he comes home, he’ll make sure that next time, it won’t be just him who knows what to do.

some kids start penning down comprehensive lore books, his dad’s journal with the volume turned up, with only the stuff that’s true and none of the fluff, the muddied waters. dean contributes to that more than he expects, at first, and suddenly they’re crowding and crawling around him, eager for his input. turns out he has a lot to say.

not enough for the kids, though, it seems, because they keep sneaking carver edlund’s books into the house when he has banned them, has made it a bold point on his penned-down list of house rules. he finds them stuffed under mattresses and as pdfs on phones. he burns what he can. but he also says, okay, all right, i’ll write a fucking memoir if that’s what it takes to get you people to stop smuggling this trash in. and he lays down the basics: azazel’s plot and meddling angels, an apocalypse or two, what’s there besides the earth and how to make sure you never go there. nothing warranting gaudy pulp covers with half-naked men on them. if anyone wants to know which brother did what, they’ll have to be damn good at reading between the lines, because dean’s too over it to point fingers, especially not when his words might stick around for other generations to read and judge and point their own. he doesn’t put his name on it. leaves it anonymous.

what he doesn’t count on are the notes in the margins, the whispered conversations after dinner or the glances he’ll get: that he’s the hero of that story, he’s just too humble to write it down.

he only yells about that once.

in the end, it’s like this: there’s no american men of letters, but there’s people of action, and they all cluster around the heart of the country where the drive is about the same to each coast, and at the heart of that is dean.

in the very, very end, it’s like this: his memoir goes into print, and there’s a preface telling his name in bold letters, and clarifying the details he had made sure to leave extra vague. if you’re in a roadhouse bar somewhere—and there’s more of them now, run by those who wouldn’t stay but wouldn’t leave, either—there’s a solid chance you’ll run into a dean or deanna or ten, and they can tell you exactly who they were named after and why.

but right now, it’s just a chance, something to build out of nothing, something he wishes he had back when. something to turn his north towards, to pour all his strengths in that have grown from pain and weakness. they do always say the best leaders are those who never wanted to lead. out of all the rubble, something that’ll hold up without him there to keep it together, though he’s the heart that beats in it, anyway. he’s the home it grew up in.

[iliveiloveiwrite]

My Love, My Soulmate

Request: Hi there - I see your requests are open! Would you consider a Marauders era Sirius x reader for a Soulmates au? With Sirius resisting of course! Tattoos, colour, dreams - I don’t mind which you choose. Nice angsty/fluff mix with a tiny bit of zest?! 💕 - @fific7

A/N: Here’s your request! I hope you like and I hope it meets your expectations! There’s a little bit of fluff, little bit of angst and a little bit of zest. I’m unsure of whether my explanation of soulmates makes sense but I still like it nonetheless. Also, I 100% believe that the teachers at Hogwarts had like a bet on which students would end up together and that they thrived on gossip.

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Warnings: swearing, making out, eludes to sex, angst. If there is anything I've missed, let me know and I’ll add it immediately.

Word count: 3.4k 

It starts as a burn. As if you’ve caught yourself on your curling wand. A short, sharp shock of pain and it’s over.

Pulling your wrist from your chest, you peek at the two letters now engrained onto your skin. A mark no bigger than the size of a muggle penny coin details your soulmate’s initials. There in magical black ink are the letters: S.B.

You lie back with a groan, pulling your pillow over your face to hide away the emotions. It seemed the fates were playing a sick game with you when they decided to make Sirius Black your soulmate.

The initials of your soulmate appears on your wrist on your seventeenth birthday. As far as you know, it is only a phenomenon that occurs within the wizarding community. Muggles, for the sake of their hearts, believe in soulmates but will spend their lives trying to find their perfect match. For wizards, the soulmate mark is the result of the countless hunts for witches and wizards across history. As society progressed and began to hunt those who did not seem to fit with the norms, the fates decided that every witch and wizard would find their soulmate at the age of seventeen as a way to protect the population. It would manifest in a bond between the soulmates; only felt between the two individuals.

As witches and wizards went underground and hid their identities, the soulmate mark and the subsequent bond became a thing of fairy tales told before bedtime. Little girls and boys lulled to sleep with the idea that somewhere in the big, wide world there was someone waiting for them.

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Sirius sees the initials on his wrist and knows immediately whose they are. Your face flashes in his mind and he groans as he falls back onto his pillow.

For so long, he has dreaded this day. He believed in soulmates, he did. His own parents were soulmates; their initials marking each of their wrists. But they were completely wrong for each other, and he slowly saw his mother become poisoned with his father’s vitriol. From a young age, Sirius had always questioned the magic behind soulmates. If they partnered someone as lovely as his mother with someone as mean as his father then he couldn’t put much stock in the whole institution.

He watches you that day; checking for any reaction for whether his initials had been marked onto your wrist. The day ends with him feeling disappointed; you either hadn’t got the marks yet or you were an exceptionally good actress. Your face gave nothing away the whole day other than curiosity when you caught his eyes on you for the third time.

You were the complete opposite to him. He loved heavy metal music; you preferred the crooning sounds of artists such as Frank Sinatra and Louis Armstrong. Sirius had heard you hum their songs under your breath enough that he was sure he knew the lyrics to them.

You think pranks are childish and they have the potential to be a real danger; he disagrees, he thinks that pranks can be a work of genius if the right amount of planning and preparation is put into it.

Sirius frowns; he didn’t think he paid you this much attention. You had never flowed in the same social circle; conversations between the two of you limited to classes where communication was only necessary if you were sat together. He found you attractive, that much he could not deny. But the fear of turning out like his parents loomed over him; prevented him from taking it any further.

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“He couldn’t be any more my polar opposite!” You moan to your friend, Jude.

It had been a month since Sirius’ initials had appeared on your wrist, and for all of your wondering, you could not figure out how Sirius worked out to be your soulmate. There was so little you had in common. The only things being your academic status and a love of books. It was rare to see Sirius with a book when he was in a crowd, but when it was him and the Marauders in the common room, he could be found with a leather-bound book open on his lap. His eyes would scan the pages so fast, you wondered if he was truly reading the words on the page.

Jude pats your head, “Yes, you’ve mentioned.”

“Jude… I need a little more sympathy here, please.”

She frowns, “It’s hard to dredge up more sympathy when all you’ve done is complain since you found his initials, my dear.”

You frown back at her, “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I’ve been an arse about this – who knows? Don’t they say opposites attract?”

Jude smiles at you, “I do believe that is the saying.”

“Well let’s hope it’s true then.” You murmur, your eyes landing on the shaggy-haired Marauder sat further down the table from you. His friend, James, elbows him, pointing over to you when Sirius protests his elbow. Your heart starts to race the minute you lock eyes with Sirius; for a singular moment, everything else seems to fade away and your vision solely focuses on him.

The moment is broken when Sirius turns away with a scoff.

The hope that had begun to grow within you quickly dims. You let your head fall onto your arms, “I don’t think he likes me, Jude.”

Jude tuts, sending a glare down the table to where the Marauders sit, “Then he’s a prick.”

“That’s my soulmate you’re talking about.”

Jude shrugs, “He’s still a prick. If you were my soulmate, I’d be over the moon.”

“You’re too good to me, Jude.”

“I know.” She states, “Now, come on, we’ve got Charms first and I want to practice the Deletrius charm, I’m certain it’ll come up on the summer exams.”

You let her drag you out of the Great Hall by the hand, feeling Sirius’ eyes on you with every step you take.

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Filius Flitwick was an exceptional teacher and an interesting man – but he was also notorious for loving gossip. The staff room at Hogwarts was always rife with gossip when another pair of students had found their soulmate in each other. Professor McGonagall would always claim that she had known from the start; Flitwick was not one to argue with her. Besides, she was probably right.

The staff room was positively rioting when news hit of Sirius Black finding his soulmate in (Y/N) (Y/L/N). Professor Flitwick wanted to question the match given how at odds they were to each other, but he knew never to argue with the fates.

Professor Flitwick had changed the seating plan.

He changed the seating plan so Sirius would be sat next to (Y/N). The teachers at Hogwarts all promised to not intervene with soulmates, yet they all did. Professor McGonagall would be happy to hear of this prompting; she had been worrying over Sirius Black finding his soulmate for longer than she cared to admit.

Walking into Charms, you saw that the class was lined up against the back wall. You grumbled to yourself; the last thing needed was a new seating plan. You got on well with the Ravenclaw girl you were sitting next to, you didn’t want any more change.

Your stomach dropped to the floor when Professor Flitwick announced that your new place would be next to Sirius.

You felt as if you were in two minds. Since seeing his initials on your wrist, you were drawn to him – wanting nothing more to be in his orbit. Yet, the look on his face as he turned away from you in the Great Hall had dread unfurling in your stomach as you walked towards your new seating place.

“Sir, what was wrong with the old seating plan?” Sirius asks, refusing to take his seat next to you.

“Seating plans need to change to better fit the needs of the students, Mr Black. Please take your seat next to Miss (Y/L/N) so I can begin my lesson.”

Sirius grits his teeth as he slides into the seat next to yours. His entire body tense while he opens his parchment and prepares his quill and ink.

It doesn’t take long for the atmosphere to change between the two of you.

It’s like electricity, or so you think. The space between the two of you hums to life and you can feel the change. You gasp involuntarily, biting your lip as goose bumps break out across your skin at the mere notion of having Sirius this close to you. You know he hears your gasp and you know he feels the same as you; he shifts imperceptibly to try and stave off whatever he’s feeling but he’s finding it harder and harder to resist you.

It’s the bond between soulmates, you think to yourself. The bond was a living, breathing thing between the pair whether it was accepted or not.

The class drags on for what feels like hours. Sirius gives up trying to pay any attention to Professor Flitwick and instead, focuses on resisting the urge to drag you from the classroom.

He practically throws his things into his bag when Professor Flitwick dismisses the class at the sound of the bell.

“Sirius, I need to talk to you.” You call, following him from the classroom.

“I know what you want to talk about, and believe me, I was just as shocked as you were when I found your initials on my wrist.”

“But what do we do about it?” He can hear the hope in your voice and see the promises in your eyes.

It almost breaks him when he says, “Nothing. We do nothing.”

Your mouth drops open, “What? Why?”

“I didn’t choose you.”

“It isn’t a choice, Sirius. The fates decide soulmates, everyone knows that.”

“Still. I didn’t choose you.”

His words land this time; each one a blow to your heart. Tears prick at the corner of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall, gritting your teeth to stop them. You would not show an ounce of weakness in front of him. Anger rises within you, turning your blood to flame.

You glare at the teenager in front of you, spitting the words, “I wouldn’t have picked you for me either, but the fates did Sirius and it’s something that we both have to live with.”

You turn away from him, leaving him there in the corridor. You barely make it to the common room before the tears start to fall and your breath falls short due to the sobs heaving from your chest. You blindly make your way to your room, pausing now and then to wipe the tears from your eyes and to berate yourself for crying over a silly boy.

But he isn’t a silly boy; he’s your soulmate and he rejected you. That lone thought has the tears beginning all over again as you hide yourself under your duvet, making sure to pull on all the curtains around your bed.

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His rejection of the bond did nothing for your feelings. If anything, they made them stronger, but you knew that you could not act on it. Sirius had made his feelings for you clear so you settled for loving him from the sidelines; watching as he hid his wrist whenever he started to flirt with other girls.

It destroyed you, but he had made his decision. You would not push him on this.

In such a short amount of time, you had gone from barely recognising Sirius as a friend to being his soulmate to being completely in love with him. Whenever you thought of your feelings for the Marauder, you felt dizzy because of how fast it had all happened. If this was the magic of soulmates, you felt whiplashed.

Jude remained your rock; handing you tissues and listening to your complaints. She had found her soulmate; a Slytherin named Poppy. And yet, Jude remained by your side through it all. Poppy joining her more often than not, and a close friendship developed between you both. You felt like a burden to them; ruining their happiness with your sadness but they assured you that they would have a lifetime to be happy. But they wanted you to be happy too – which you were working on.

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Sirius felt awful. Truthfully, he felt empty. And he had done since he said those words to you after Charms class.

He felt the idiot; he felt the fool. He could see how it was affecting you and knew that it was mirrored on his own face. He was just so scared of turning out like his parents; of fulfilling the cursed cycle all the couples in his family seem to take. First, loving each other passionately before turning to hate each other down the line. If that happened with you, he would never forgive himself.

He watches you from across the room. Your nose stuck in a book that he’s seen you read a thousand times over the last month; as if this particular book is a comfort read. He takes a deep breath before walking over to you.

“Can we talk?” He asks you, motioning to the stairs that lead to the boys dormitories – the only place in Gryffindor tower where there is privacy.

You nod, not trusting your voice around him. You wanted so badly to say no, that he has to earn that right but looking into his eyes, seeing the small light of hope there. You had to say yes. Your mind rebelled, throwing every logical reason at you, but your heart won out and you were following him up the stairs before your mind could catch up.

Sirius holds the door open for you. You duck inside, stopping in the middle of room. Tensing slightly as you hear the door shut.

“Can I be honest with you?” He asks, joining you in the middle of the room.

“Of course.”

“I didn’t want to reject the soulmate bond.”

“What?” A hot flash of anger pangs through your body – how dare he say that? How dare he say that after the pain you’ve been through watching him with other girls and keeping your mouth shut.

“I didn’t want to reject the soulmate bond.”

“Then why did you? Why have I sat by for a month with a broken heart?”

He voice is small when he replies, “I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t want us to be like my parents,” He confesses, “They’re soulmates yet entirely wrong for each other. It’s like that with every couple in my family, and I would never forgive myself that happened to us. So I pushed you away, told you I didn’t want the bond and then flirted with other girls to dig it in. It was a shitty move, and I am so sorry, but I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to stay away from you, I want to be with you.”

“Sirius, I just spent the last month of my life wondering what was so wrong with me that you couldn’t possibly love me. I sat by and tried to be happy for my best friend who had found her soulmate, but I couldn’t because my heart was in pieces. I watched you flirt with other girls as if I was nothing to you and it broke me. And it was because you were scared? Sirius, you should have talked to me. I know that we didn’t socialise much before, but you should have told your fears when my initials showed up on your wrist. I am your soulmate; I am supposed to help you through it all.”

Sirius falls to his knees before you, pressing his face to your stomach, “I know, I know. You’re right, and if I need to I’ll stay on my knees and beg for your forgiveness even though I don’t deserve it. But we can do this right? We can be together?”

Your hands begin to card themselves through his hair without thinking, “Sirius…”

He shakes his head, “There aren’t enough words in the English language for me to tell you how sorry I am. I felt it too; I felt the heartbreak and the sadness. I shouldn’t have done it, but my fear outweighed my logic.”

“We aren’t going to be like your parents.”

“But how do you know?” He whispers, fear creeping into his voice.

Your hand cradles his cheek, “Because I’ll remind you… every single day if I need to. I’m not saying I forgive you immediately, but I want this to work. The fates gave me your initials for a reason; I felt our bond in Charms, we are destined to be together.”

Sirius presses his face into your hand, dropping a kiss to the palm, “I didn’t mean it, you know. If I had to pick anyone to be my soulmate, it would be you. I am honoured that it is you.”

“You mean it?”

“I do. You’re perfect for me, and I think I’ve already fallen in love with you.” He states, eyes shining with unshed tears.

You close your eyes, his words feeling like balm spread over the gaping wound of your heart, “Thank god, because I’ve fallen in love with you too. I didn’t mean it either, I would always pick you.”

You are in his arms in an instant; his mouth hot and insistent on yours. His hands roam over your body. Your hands in his hair, grabbing a handful to keep him pressed to you. At the feel of his touch, all previous reservations fly out of your mind – the only word running through your brain is his name being repeated like a prayer. His touch feels so right, and you simply give in to what your heart has wanted since the night you saw his initials.

He walks you back towards the bed, never once pulling his lips away from yours. He only pulls away when he lays you down on top of his covers; you lie underneath him happily, enjoying the feeling of his lips leaving open mouthed kisses down the expanse of your neck and collarbone. His hands undo the buttons to your shirt, and you shift so he can push your shirt from your shoulders. He latches his lips back to your collarbone, sucking a mark there that will surely be a dark bruise by morning.

Your hands shove the hem of his t-shirt up; he pulls away from your body for long enough to take the shirt off. The minute its gone; your hands run over the expanse of his stomach, savouring the feeling of his muscles contracting at your touch. You pull his face back to yours, desperate to feel him. Your lips glide together seamlessly; as if made for each other.

Sirius runs his hands down your sides; memorising every curve of your body, grinning into the kiss as you shiver underneath him. You bite down on bottom lip; a move that has him moaning into your mouth.

“I need to know…” He whispers into your mouth; the words barely heard as they’re swallowed by you.

“What?”

“Do you want to do this?” He asks, pulling away from your mouth to run his eyes over your face, checking for any hint of hesitation whilst simultaneously asking for permission.

Your eyes sting with the tears at his care for you. You kiss him sweetly, lovingly before looking into his eyes, “I want this. I want it to be with you.”

That’s all he needs to know before he’s casting a silencing charm on the room and locking the door.

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Sirius finds it hard to keep his hands off you after the acceptance of the bond. He has to be touching you at all times whether it’s a shoulder pressed against yours, his hand holding on tight to yours, or his arms around your waist. It keeps him grounded, it keeps him calm when the stresses of life begin to settle in.

He thinks back to the beginning of your relationship; how cruel he was, and he looks at you in awe because he still doesn’t understand how you could forgive him – let alone, love him. On the days where those thoughts plague his mind, he places kiss after kiss on the mark on your wrist where his initials sit.

You know the meaning behind these kisses, knowing he’s torturing himself internally. On these days, you draw his attention from your wrist to your mouth instead where you remind him of how much you love him and how you’ve forgiven him for those early days.

His fears are quashed and his love for you only grows. You’re his soulmate, he’s yours. It’s as simple as that.

*******

General (HP) taglist: @the-hufflefluffwriter @obsessedwithrandomthings @kalimagik @summer-writes @lupins-sweater @slytherinprincess03 @mischiefsemimanaged @soleil-amaryllis @masterofthedarkness @bforbroadway @chaotic-fae-queen @peachesandpinks @nebulablakemurphy @haphazardhufflepuff

Sirius Black taglist: @cheapglitter @fific7

[peachy-rambles]

TW: miscarriage

I could only think of angst when I heard this. Alternative version, of course. 

Phil feels like somethings wrong weeks before the twins are do. He expresses his concerns with Techno and he tries to calm Phil down from his ‘nervous thinking’. Philza expresses his concerns again about a week later, only to find out that he ended up having a miscarriage. The news absolutely destroyed them both.

Oh, you want angst, anon? I'll give you angst!

Remember how I said that Phil has been pregnant before? Well, he has been, but a majority of those pregnancies often ended up being miscarriages.

See, there's something about Avian pregnancy that all the books left out and something that Phil never told Techno. And that is that Avians have a very hard time reproducing, it's why they're so rare and there's so few of them left. Live births are extremely difficult for them, most likely due to human bodies already being less than suitable for live birth - add in the hollow bones and wings of an Avian, and it's so much more difficult.

9/10 Avians die giving birth and there's no guarantee the offspring will survive, since most Avians never make it past the first 10 years of their life.

Phil is a bit of an exception to this and has successfully carried to term a few children, AND survived the birth (he was really weak afterwards but he was alive). But his body still isn't perfect and several of his pregnancies besides those children he had, were all miscarriages.

When he finds out he's pregnant with Techno's child, he is worried it might end up being another miscarriage, but he sees how happy Techno is and decides not to tell him about Phil's past pregnancies. There's no need to worry Techno because all of Phil's previous children were all sired by Avians and Phil figured that since Techno is a god, their children will be demigods and surely, surely, that means Phil won't end up miscarrying again?

But then...he does.

It devastates both of them, especially when they learn they'd been expecting twins and they both blame themselves.

Phil feels guilty and thinks it's his fault, that he shouldn't have assumed it would be alright, that his body has failed not only him but Techno. Techno had been so excited and overjoyed about the pregnancy, to finally have a family of their own and now he'll never have that. And it's all Phil's fault.

Techno feels guilty because he feels like he dismissed Phil's concern, that he should've listened and pushed Phil to see a healer if he was concerned. But Techno had been constantly worried during the early stages of the pregnancies and Phil had always soothed him, telling him it would be fine, so Techno had tried to be calm about it and not worry, again. He thought since they were so far into the pregnancy, there was a low chance of losing the babies, but he was wrong. Techno doesn't blame Phil at all, and thinks the blame should be rested on his own shoulders.

While Phil had once been so happy during the pregnancy, now he's become extremely depressed and rarely ever leaves their nest. He barely eats or drinks, and he doesn't talk, he just lays there unresponsive. He doesn't even let Techno touch him, constantly shying away from his touch and turning away.

He doesn't tell Techno the truth about his past miscarriages, too afraid that Techno will hate him for it and possibly leave him if he knows the truth, that Phil can't give him the family he wants (it never stopped Phil's past partners from leaving him). Phil refuses to talk to Techno because he's afraid if he does, the truth will spill out and he just can't tell Techno.

Techno is naturally concerned and tries his best to help Phil, while also dealing with and processing his own grief. But he takes Phil's silence and unresponsiveness to mean he's upset with Techno and blames him for it, which Techno understands. So he gives Phil space and stops sleeping in their nest with him, he starts going out more (usually claiming he's hunting and sometimes he is but sometimes he just wanders for hours outside, unsure of what to do).

This continues for a few weeks, both of them grieving and suffering alone, until one day while Techno is out hunting and he hears the sound of a baby crying in the distance.

He thinks he's finally cracked, that his grief and mourning have gotten to him, and now he's hearing things.

But the crying continues and the wolf he brought with him to help him hunt also seems to have heard it, ears pointed in the direction of the sound and getting agitated. And that's when Techno realizes he isn't hearing things, the crying is real, which means there's a baby crying somewhere in the forest with monsters and predators, who also probably hear it.

Techno follows the sound, the wolf following closely behind him. They come across a few monsters and swiftly take care of them before they find the baby.

It's wrapped in an old blanket and hidden in some undergrowth, and has clearly been there for a while. It's also a hybrid, Techno realizes, with small brown animal ears (goat? ram? deer? he's not sure, hard to tell when they're this young), instead of human ones.

Techno doesn't want to assume the worst, but he has a feeling this baby was abandoned. It can't be left alone and logically, Techno knows he should take it back home, but he hesitates. What will happen if he brings home a baby? What will Phil think? Will he try to care for it or will he react negatively?

The baby begins to let out small whimpers and Techno makes his decision, taking it in his arms and wrapping it in his cloak to hopefully keep it warm. The baby immediately quiets and nuzzles into Techno, and Techno tries his best not to feel anything when it does (best not to get attached when there's no guarantee it'll stay with them).

Techno makes his way back home and he begins panicking when the baby starts crying again. He tries his best to quiet it down, but not before apparently Phil hears and comes out of their nest for the first time in a while, approaching Techno.

"That's...a baby," Phil says once he's standing in front of him, staring down at the baby still in Techno's arm.

"Yeah, it was...abandoned, I think. I didn't-I didn't know what else to do..." Techno tries to explain, his voice trailing off.

Phil is quiet before reaching his hand out, "Can I...?"

Techno nods and hands the baby to Phil, who stops crying when Phil coos down at them.

Phil brings the baby into their nest and starts tending to them, Techno hovering nearby and watching closely. Eventually, the baby and Phil fall asleep together in their nest and Techno goes to cover them with a blanket before leaving.

But he's stopped when Phil calls out a soft "Techno" and he pauses, glancing down at Phil.

"Can you stay?" Phil asks and somehow Techno knows Phil isn't just asking if Techno will stay tonight.

"I will," Techno answers back and lays down in the bed, pulling Phil and the baby close to him, so they're both in his arms. He presses a kiss to Phil's forehead and whispers, "I'll always stay."

(Things aren't completely fixed yet. Phil still hasn't told Techno the truth and they're both still mourning, but it's a step closer to healing. They'll get through this. Together, just like they've always done.)

[snaxpo]

fuck it bugsnax/s4m au notes

alternate title: i’m at that point in liking something where i have to combine it with everything else i’ve liked previously and today i’m making that everyone else’s problem. 

- base premise is a lil different! instead of being a journalist who was invited personally to the island by the expedition leader, you (or FK if you consider them a separate character from the player) are tasked with investigating the habitat, a budding commune on snaktooth island that may or may not be devolving into a cult. there’s just one teeny tiny problem - the commune’s leader and also your main suspect, boris habit, has been missing for weeks by the time you arrive. 

- now it’s a matter of gaining the inhabitants’ trust/getting them to come back to the habitat while hunting and subduing the bugsnax, who seem increasingly eager to launch themselves at inhabitants at quite literally dangerous speeds, in a battle of wits to keep your newfound companions fed while documenting the strange creatures. and of course, the question of just what happened to boris habit still lingers in the air. think like... talentless nana where the protag pretends to be all cute and unassuming (complete with flower motifs!) but really they’re there on Super Secret Spy Business. but of course there’s less murder. 

- oddly the bugsnax seem to have only become more aggressive after his disappearance. i’m sure it’s nothing. 

- yes everyone is still a grumpus

- there isn’t really an interview “mechanic” so much as it is a Lot of cozying up to everybody in pursuit of whatever information you can find on habit/potential group rituals/events that led to his disappearance; you get it by bits and pieces rather than a single structured interview. there is of course a lot more interactions between characters than there is in s4m’s base game bc thats like 60% of the appeal of bugsnax and i would be a fool not to think of it.

- time for ideas for specific characters! kamal is the vice-mayor of the habitat and has been habit’s right-hand grump for as long as any of the inhabitants can remember, despite their relationship becoming increasingly strained ever since their arrival on the island, and especially before habit’s disappearance. i imagine you still find him passed out but instead of collapsing from starvation he’s like "please.... toothpaste... a breath mint.... some pepto bismol. i’ve been able to taste my own breath for weeks." has been trying to divide his time between looking after the habitat and looking for habit himself (and also his best friend wallus) but the dispersal of the habitat has left him a tad Demoralized, to say the least.

- i feel like trencil would play a wambus-adjacent role in the sense that he's the one taking care of the sauce plants and also one of the first townspeople you meet. you convince to come back with you not necessarily bc he'd be able to continue farming in town but bc he would probably have an easier time looking for his daughter if he got some sleep first (but only if you look for her in his stead)

- gillis is like. a wannabe chandlo. makes you capture a bunch of snax that he Says he's gonna use to get stronger but eventually you find out he's been releasing them or keeping them in like lil makeshift pet houses bc he always takes one look at their big googly eyes and turns to mush. but EVERYONE'S eating them so naturally if they find out he's not they're gonna think he's some kinda wuss so he just pretends. 

- dallas keeps asking for sweet n colorful bugsnax to give to mirphy to impress her (sweetieflies, instabugs, etc etc.) but by some streak of bad luck they always end up being her least favorite. he tries to see if Maybe he can use them to make some new bugsnak-exclusive pigments, but like in canon they always end up turning into mush before he can get very far. mirphy meanwhile is far more interested in preserving them for a potential display, but similar to dallas, she never gets very far.

- i imagine the kid habiticians are like. a roving band of semi-feral children bc if anyone's gonna keep them in town it's definitely not kamal.

- i wanna do something with wallus SO BAD like you find him somewhere up in frosted peak but i have no idea what he would even DO its fucking killing me

- those are all the ideas i have For Now; s4m has more characters than bugsnax so there’s a lot to be done w/ them lmao. if i think of any more i’ll probably put it in another post or if anybody wants to spitball with me.......  👀

- and now we get to The Big Guns: habit.

- he was fun to work on w/ this au mostly bc despite being the rough equivalent of lizbert he’s a way different type of flawed leader than her; where liz is responsible to the point of martyring herself without a second thought and not thinking to delegate any tasks to the other snaxburg residents, which is what ultimately causes them to fall apart once she disappears, habit's deal is that he wants the position and appearance of an authority figure because it'll keep him safe, but he kind of sucks at taking responsibility for anything he does wrong because he’s spent most of his life acting according to what other people (namely his family) expect of him and being met with a negative reception no matter what, so he doesn’t really believe he has power over anything, including his own actions, despite being such a control freak for most of his own game. so his arc would need something that’s kind of antithetical to what liz had, wouldn’t it?

- so what i got so far is that au habit was tryin to covertly start a bugsnax cult bc he sees being asborbed by the snax as a sort of ascension and was eventually planning to have everyone be absorbed; it’s important to note however that bc information on bugsnax is so obscure he doesn’t actually 100% know how absorption works so tl;dr: habit became the bugsnax monarch willingly and then 5 seconds later he was like "oh no wait this fucking sucks. what have i done. shit. fuck."

- unable to cope with the realization that he was once again forced to act in accordance to someone (or in this case something) else's desires, he shuts down emotionally, becoming an empty husk of a grumpus while the bugsnax above run rampant thanks to the extra fuel and absolutely no restrictions until the Big Climax when habit is finally moved to take back control of the snax and by proxy Take Some Fucking Responsibility for knowingly luring people to cthulhu island. however this does leave the obvious question of if he was such an empty shell for most of the game why didn’t they just. eat him.

- the answer i eventually landed on was that his self-preservation instincts were still kicking on a subconscious level and during the aforementioned climax he eventually realizes that he does not in fact want to die, he just doesn’t want to keep living the way he is now (as part of an ancient hivemind beyond his understanding) or the way he was before (you know.)

- also fun fact: i was thinking about what his monarch body would be based off of bc the snakdragon, while cool as shit, didn’t feel right for him, and then i remembered that blooming onions exist. i imagine he’s in the middle acting as the flower’s “stigma”

- as for endings i’m thinking like. in the neutral ending kamal joins habit but its left ambiguous whether or not they'll ever be able to leave the island or if this is even a permanent solution (call that the paw in unloveable paw ending). in the good ending you bust habit outta his queen body after fending off enough bugsnax together and it’s super gross bc the undersnax as a whole is super gross but hey at least everyone’s leaving alive. i don’t know what a bad ending entails except most if not all of the cast is dead and habit is left alone on the island surrounded by reminders of his spectacular failure.

- hell i can even think of a sequel hook for the good ending like in canon bugsnax; some time after the ending/credits you ask habit just Where did he get the information on bugsnax that led to him being like “you could make a religion out of this” and the screen fades to black before you hear his answer. there.

- its almost midnight.

[dreamescapeswriting]

BTS Reaction | Asking You To Quit Your Job [Request]

Seokjin:

Jin was quite old fashioned when it came to this, you'd been married for four months now and he'd been debating bringing up the topic since then but he knew that now was the right moment. You were in a good mood and you'd prepared dinner for him to come home to. It had been your week off and it felt good to have you at home all to himself.

"Don't you think this week has been amazing?" You took a sip of your wine and nodded as an answer to Jin's question,

"Coming home to you every night was so nice, I bet the time off was great too." You hummed,

"Yeah, it's a shame I have to go back. I was just starting to get into this new show." You laughed, and Jin took it as a sign.

"Then don't go back."

"Jin I have to go back, it's my job," He shrugged his shoulder nonchalantly and chewed on the steak that you had made for dinner that night.

"Quit, I don't mind being able to provide for us. I pay most of the bills anyway," You stared at him dumbfounded that he would even think like that.

"I do, I pay everything, your money is just extra that we don't really need." You put your knife and fork down and stared at him as he continued to talk about it.

"Jin...I love you but did you want me to quit and become a full-time stay at home wife?" He shook his head,

"No...I just meant..."

"Do you want me to rely on you for money, to come to you when I need new clothes, new shoes or I want to go out?" He shook his head finally starting to see why you wanted to keep your job,

"I like earning my own money Jin, I would never want to just take things from you. It would feel morally wrong. Relying on other people...It's not something that I do Jin," He placed his hand over yours on the table and he sighed,

"I never thought of it that way," You smiled sweetly and he looked down at the table not knowing what to do or say now.

"It was a lovely thought though baby, maybe next time I have a week off you can take one too, we can go somewhere together and just spend time together?" He agreed and you both began to think of places where you wanted to go.

Yoongi:

All you ever did was complain about your job which is why Yoongi had suggested what he had in the first place,

"Quit? You think I can just quit without having something else to fall back on?" You groaned sitting up in the bed and looking at Yoongi. It was one of those mornings when he'd just come home and you were just getting up for work.

"You're always complaining about your boss being an arsehole, I don't see a problem with it...Just quit." You shook your head at him,

"I can't just quit Yoongi I need something to have behind me, another job-"

"Another job?" He sat up and stared at you when he told you to quit he meant just quit working. He wanted you to stay at home and be happy that you didn't want to work for everything you had in your life. He was more than willing to pay for everything you and he owned.

"Yes...What did you think?"

"Well, I just thought that- I don't know, that maybe you would quit and not work again?" You laughed softly thinking it was some kind of a joke but then you saw the serious look on his face and you realised it wasn't a joke.

"Not work again? Yoongi how would I afford to live?" You laughed nervously but he took your hands in his,

"I would take care of everything, I earn more than enough for both of us." He was talking on and on about it so much that you knew he'd clearly been thinking about it for some time but you were still hung up on how he expected you to do nothing all day?

"What am I supposed to do while you're at work? Wait around until you come back?" He shook his head,

"No, you can do all of that reading you've been wanting to do, find a new hobby? A new skill. You can do anything you want,"

"I want to work Yoongi," You smiled at him, it was nice of him to think of you like this though. To think of providing for you both but it wasn't something you could ever do,

"I wouldn't be able to do that to you Yoongi.  It would feel wrong." He sighed, he knew you were right. It would feel like he was paying you to stick around,

"And if anyone ever found out, god the media would have a field day painting me as the bad guy." He laid back down and pulled you down to lay on his chest,

"I still don't like you working for that company, we'll find you somewhere else together and then you don't have to deal with your boss." You smiled and looked at the time,

"Speaking of which, if I'm late again he'll actually kill me." You kissed him before disappearing into the bathroom to have a shower and get ready for the day ahead of you.

Hoseok:

"I couldn't get the time off, but I'll come and see you on my next weekend off." Hoseok groaned as you told him, he'd been planning on taking you on tour with him and the boys but your boss wouldn't let you take any time off.

"I hate that job of yours, you should just quit." It had come out as a joke but the more that Hoseok thought about it the better idea it seemed to be,

"Yeah! You should just quit, I can look after you, you won't have to work for that stupid boss of yours ever again." He then began talking so fast that you could barely understand a word he was trying to say to you,

"Hobi?" You tried to interrupt but he began pacing around the bedroom and you were only catching onto some of the words he was saying. Something about quitting and then always being with him, no matter what tour they went on you could always be there for him. You stood still in front of him and he smiled down at you, giving you a kiss on the lips.

"I'm a genius,"

"You sure are babe but what are you so genius about?" He sighed and sat you down on the bed,

"You should just quit, that way I can take you all around the world with us on tour, we can go sightseeing together, do tourist things that couples do when they go to new places." You nodded along as he repeated everything he had been saying but in a slower way so you could understand him this time.

"That would be brilliant Hobi but I love my job, I don't want to quit it and run around the world with you." He looked at you and you knew you'd upset him.

"Of course I'd love to go with you Hobi but not all of the time. I have a life, I have friends and family here, and what would I do when you're practising all day on tour and then when we're home and you're at the studio," His mind hadn't thought about that, he'd only thought about all of the good things that would come along with you quitting your job.

"I'll still come and see you but I don't want to rely on you for money Hobi. I have my own job for a reason," He nodded and leant his forehead against yours, this would be his final night home until he left for their world tour.

"I'll see you in a month and until I get there we can call, skype and text." You promised him,

"It'll be like when we were dating," He chuckled at the memories and nodded with you, he knew you were right but he hated leaving you behind when he went away but he also adored his job.

"Pack. Before I get told off by Jin for distracting you and making you leave things behind again." You laughed and Hoseok began packing his things up, sneaking one of your shirts in there to cuddle at night.

Namjoon:

This whole fight had started out as something small but now it was a huge fight between you and Namjoon that had been going on for the last week. You'd stop at night and pick right back up when you both came home to one another the next time, fueled with more facts and insults for one another.

"What about when we start a family?! You're just going to take off right after giving birth to our son or daughter?!" You stared at Namjoon as he brought that up,

"It's different..." You whispered trying to think of how in any way that it would be different but you knew deep down that it wasn't. Namjoon had told you he wanted you to quit your job and that he didn't want you working at the office you worked for anymore. He could provide more than enough for you and him three times over if he really wanted to. He made enough money to do practically anything he wanted but he didn't seem to understand why you were so upset with him wanting you to quit.

"How is it different Y/n? You'll have a son or daughter and then leave them at home alone?" You shook your head,

"No Namjoon, of course not. But I want to work, I can't just sit around the house all day and be bored! What about if I want to go out shopping? I'm not going to use your money." He stared at you,a little shocked that you were exploding out about everything.  The whole fight you had been calm about it but you were starting to lose it.

"I don't want to rely on you for money Namjoon. Do you know how terrible I felt when I lost my job back when we first started dating? I stay up all night every night hunting for this job, applying for countless jobs because I didn't want to rely on you..." Namjoon had no idea that you'd done any of this, that you felt that way about taking money from him. He'd always seen the money as something you shared, you were married and living together, the money was joint between you.

"It's your money Namjoon, I don't want to take it." You whispered to him, he walked over to you and knelt in front of you.

"I didn't know you felt that way." You sighed and looked at him, you knew it was something you should have told him before but you never wanted to rely on anybody for anything. It was just the way you were brought up,

"I should have said something before but Namjoon I don't want to quit." He nodded and kissed you lovingly,

"Then you don't have to, I should have thought before I started mentioning it. I'm sorry." This was going to end up in one of those apology circles where you and Namjoon when back and forth saying sorry until you finally fell asleep so you just kissed him to shut you both up.

Jimn:

You crashed through the door and into Namjoon's studio where Namjoon, Jimin and Kai were sitting.

"I brought your coffee, you weren't in the TXT studio so I figured you'd be with Joon." Jimin watched you handing Kai his coffee before leaving through the door and he frowned racing out after you.

"Baby, what are you doing?" He questioned, you stared at him and then over his shoulder.

"Jimin I can't talk, I'm late for a meeting with PD," You tried to go around him but he grabbed onto your wrist to stop you from moving away from him.

"Since when were you on coffee runs for TXT and going into meetings with PD again?" He stared at you wanting answers but giving him answers meant admitting that you'd been demoted from your other job and given an intern role but with low payment.

"You can't lie to me," You sighed knowing he was right,

"I got demoted, they found out about me and you being together so they demoted me. Jimin I'm lucky I'm not fired so can I go please?" His grip was still on your wrist and you heard PD calling your name,

"If I don't get to that meeting I won't even have this job Jimin." He shook his head,

"Then quit, I don't want you to work here if you're going to be a coffee maid, I can provide for us...I can pay for our bills and we can-"

"Are you asking me to quit my job and let you pay for everything?" He nodded not seeing a problem with it, his dad paid for everything his mum had.

"Jimin I can't just quit it's my job..."

"You got demoted-"

"And I can earn a promotion again as I did before...Do you think I would just quit and rely on you?" You were slightly offended that he would think you would just quit and use him for money,

"No, but I have the money I don't see the big deal." You stared at him and you knew he really didn't see the issue with it.

"It's not about money Jimin, I don't want to rely on you for anything...I can't explain this properly right now but I would never use you for your money for anything." The way you worded it cleared everything up 'Use him for his money.'

"I didn't- I don't want you to rely on..." The more he tried to explain it the more he realised what it had sounded like and he kissed you,

"I'll cook dinner tonight, work hard baby." You smiled and ran to catch up to bang PD.

Taehyung:

You were busy because you worked for another kpop idol, usually, it was just running around for coffee but just lately they'd been wanting more and more from you so you were getting home later and later. When you walked through the front door that night you hadn't expected to see Taehyung sitting on the sofa waiting for you to come in,

"Baby, it's late. You should be in bed." You whispered going up behind him and rubbing his shoulders, he smiled at the feeling. He'd missed you all week and now you were finally here he never wanted you to leave again.

"I haven't seen you all week, I missed you." He grumbled so you sat down next to him on the sofa and laid your head down on his lap.

"I know, I'm sorry. The guy I work for he wants me to start getting into the business properly." His hands were playing with your hair as you yawned.

"I've been thinking about it a lot..." You hummed as a sign for him to continue talking and he sighed.

"What if you quit..." You sat up as the words came from his mouth, you'd never talked about something like this before.

"Why would I quit?" You questioned turning so you were sitting face to face with him on the sofa, he looked nervously down at his hands before looking back at your face.

"Well I mean you don't need to work, I can afford to look after us and more." You felt your heartbreak as he spoke about this,

"Tae I don't-"

"I can afford the house, I can afford our bills and then I still have loads left to pay for whatever else we may want." You shook your head quickly getting off of the sofa so you could try and process what he was saying to you, it was 2 in the morning and he was telling you all of this now.

"Tae, no...No I don't want you to pay for everything." He continued to talk about how he wouldn't mind and how he could afford to do it but it was only making you feel worse as a person.

"Tae! Do you remember when we first started dating? How I didn't want you to pay for my meal? Do you remember that?" Of course, he did, it was one of the many reasons that he'd started to fall for you. You didn't want him for his money, you wanted him for him.

"Yes but this is different, this would be me providing for my girlfriend, my future..."

"Tae, I don't want to rely on you for money. What about when I want to go out? I'm not going to start asking you for money, or relying on you when I need money or new clothes." He wasn't understanding and you knew why he wasn't, this was his first serious relationship and he didn't see the big deal with it. It was just money to him,

"I can't take your money Tae." He could see how upset you were getting so he nodded his head,

"Fine, okay. Don't quit okay? I just...I want to see you more." He whispered and you got back onto the sofa next to him and laid your head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry Tae...I'll try and get some time off, find something else with fewer hours. I don't like being away from you either." He sighed wrapping his arm around you and drawing your body closer to his so he could hold you as long as he could.

"I have the weekend off though." You whispered closing your eyes,

"Me too." He whispered back to you, kissing your head and letting you sleep next to him.

Jungkook:

You were sitting on the sofa with Jungkook and Jimin watching one of those old black and white TV shows where the wife ran around for the man. Made sure dinner was on the table by a certain time and ran everything perfectly while the husband worked all day every day.

"Don't you think that's nice?" Jimin and you turned to look at Jungkook who was sitting in the middle of you and holding the popcorn.

"Do we think what is nice?" You questioned, taking a handful of popcorn and putting it into your mouth. You and Jungkook had been together for three years and you'd just moved in together, tonight was the first night you'd invited one of the guys over.

"Having someone waiting for you at home, having dinner ready for you the moment you step through the door." You snorted back and laugh and shook your head,

"Oh yes, and the poodle skirt she's wearing is just define. Maybe if she's lucky he'll give her an allowance and let her go to the shop," You were only half-joking at this point. You and Jungkook had gotten into a fight earlier that night about you leaving your job but it wasn't something that you wanted to do, you wanted to keep working. You loved working and you loved your job but Jungkook didn't, it kept you away from him just as much as his job kept you away from him.

"You know that's not what I meant, I just meant it's nice to have that kind of life. Someone to come home to." You rolled your eyes and Jimin could sense something big was coming so he made an excuse to leave the apartment.

"Is that how you want our life to be? You want me to run around after you like some kind of housewife? Have dinner on the table for when you get in?" He shook his head as he followed you into the kitchen,

"No, I just- It's not a completely awful thought...Coming home to you." You stared at him as you leant back against the kitchen countertop.

"You want to come home to me in a poodle skirt with dinner ready on time? Run around like a slave?" You continued ranting on about how disgusting it was for women back then and how they had no rights, had literally nothing but their husbands and he realised what he'd said,

"No. No, look-" He took your hands and walked you over to the kitchen table sitting down with you as he held your hands in his so that he could talk this through properly.

"I just meant I thought it would be nice to come home to you all of the time, there are nights when I don't come home or you don't come home because we're so busy...I don't want you to run around like a housewife but being able to see you every night would be nice." You realised you'd probably overreacted about everything but it was just how you felt,

"I can't give up my job Kook." You whispered to him,

"I can maybe go down to part-time but I can't quit if I quit I'll go insane with nothing to do." He nodded in agreement with you and you leaned across to kiss him,

"Though you in a poodle skirt does sound cute," You pushed his chest playfully and he chuckled at you and then shook his head.

"I'll talk to my boss Kook," You promised him and he kissed you again running his hands up your side and smiling as he felt you move the chair closer to him

Tagline: 

@writingdreamsnottragedies @yoongisdumplingcheeks @snowy-meowl @lynnthevirgo @jooniesdarlingdimples @mitzwinchester @rjsmochii @lyoongx​ @fan-ati--c​ @btsiguess-kpop​ @kneel-begyourpardon​ @taestannie​

[lumosandnoxwriting]

I’d Rather Be a Lover Than a Fighter - Harry Potter

Title: I’d rather be a lover than a fighter

Pairing: Harry x fem!reader

Summary: Harry decides to go back to Hogwarts for his 7th year after the war is over. He didn’t think being back in those walls would affect him as much as it is, and his girlfriend helps him through it

A/N: Harry never should have been an auror and I stand by that. Requests are open and feed back is welcomed!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The train ride back to school is different this year.

He, Hermione and Y/N are occupying the same compartment they always do, but they’re missing some pretty important pieces. For one Ron had decided not to return to Hogwarts to complete his education. He’d called Harry mental for deciding to go through NEWTS, considering the fact that Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new Minister for Magic, declared that NEWTS were no longer a job requirement for Aurors as long as they fought in the Battle of Hogwarts.

“If anyone is ready to be an Auror its you, mate,” Ron had said indignantly when Harry told him he’d be heading back to Hogwarts last month. “You defeated bloody Voldemort for Christ sakes.”

Harry knows he’s qualified to be an Auror, he just isn’t sure that’s what he wants to be anymore. Before the war he would have given anything to just skip over his time at Hogwarts and be out in the world, hunting down dark wizards and trying to keep the world safe. But now, now he’s looked the darkest wizard of all in the eyes – he even managed to kill him. Without Voldemort out there, lurking in dark corners and waiting for his turn to strike Harry isn’t sure that being an Auror is for him.

Which is why he’s back on the Hogwarts Express, zooming towards the old castle that always felt like his home. Without his NEWTS his job prospects in the wizard world are bleak, unless he wants to end up working at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Which wouldn’t be so bad, but he wants to do something worthwhile with his life. Even after defeating Voldemort he still feels like he has to do something good with his life, so that his parents, Sirius, Remus, Tonks and everyone else who died fighting in the Wizarding War didn’t die in vain. Didn’t die protecting a directionless, unaccomplished git.

He’s brought out of his stupor by Y/N gently shaking his arm and gesturing to the woman with the Trolly. He gives his girlfriend a quick reassuring smile, before he gets up and buys their usual stack of treats. He sits back down and starts in on a pumpkin pasty, almost subconsciously turning to give Hedwig some.

But that’s the other missing piece. Hedwig had died protecting him over a year ago, and yet he still couldn’t bring himself to enter the Magical Menagerie to get a new owl. She was so much more than an owl. She was the first real creature to show Harry genuine love, and she brought him much needed companionship during his long summers with the Dursleys. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to replace Hedwig.

He quickly shoves the rest of the pasty into his mouth, chewing slowly as he brings his attention back to Hermione and Y/N. They’d been chatting amongst themselves for most of the journey, allowing Harry some much-needed quiet time.  

They don’t even seem to notice that he’s paying attention again, too engrossed in a story of one of Hermione’s adventures in Australia. Not too long after the war her and Ron went to find her parents to restore their memories. It took a few weeks, but they were successful, and even though Ron returned to The Burrow, Hermione had stayed with her parents, only arriving back in England yesterday.

Before long everyone around them starts rustling, changing into their robes as the castle grows nearer. Harry mindlessly gets ready, just as he has done countless times before. But the usual feeling of comfort in his stomach has turned into a hardened ball of anxiety.

-

“Those Thestrals really are something, aren’t they? I never imagined they’d look like that,” Y/N whispers to Harry as they make their way into the castle, her hand lightly brushing his.

They had agreed that they would keep the PDA to a minimum, not wanting to draw even more attention to Harry. He always hated being the Boy Who Lived and now he was the Boy Who Lived Again. The Boy Who Killed Voldemort.

But in this moment, as they enter the Great Hall, where Voldemort’s lifeless body had laid only a few months ago, there’s nothing more he craves than the touch of his girlfriend.

He grabs her hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “I told you, not your fault you never believed me.”

She lets out a quiet laugh, squeezing Harry’s hand back even tighter as they take a seat at the Gryffindor table. Harry can feel everyone’s eyes on him, he looks down at his plate, letting their stares burn a hole in the back of his head. Some students had only heard stories of what happened in the castle that night, too young to fight they had been ushered out by McGonagall before it all began. Others though, others were there the whole time, fighting alongside each other.

“Just ignore them, love,” Y/N whispers in his ear, placing a kiss on his temple.

Luckily Professor Sprout is bringing in the first years to be sorted, and all of the attention is off of Harry. He looks up towards the head table, and his eyes meet Hagrid’s. He gives Harry a wink before turning his attention back towards the sorting.

Harry looks towards McGonagall next, and he can’t help but think that she looks like she belongs in the Headmaster’s golden seat. Her eyes don’t meet his, but he somehow knows that the smile on her face is for him.

-

Hogwarts is different. Everywhere he looks he is reminded of the Battle of Hogwarts, unable to escape those memories. On his way down to potions a few weeks in to term he stops dead in his tracks, positive that Lavender Brown is laying on the floor in front of him, bleeding from her neck.

He feels someone squeeze his shoulders, and with a blink the image is gone.

“it’s alright, love. Nothing’s there,” Y/N speaks softly into his ear before pressing a kiss into the back of Harry’s neck. They stand there for a few minutes, her hands massaging Harry’s shoulders as his heart rate comes down. It had looked so real.

Thankfully when they slip into potions a few minutes later Slughorn doesn’t even acknowledge that they’re late.

-

Things go on like this for weeks. Y/N doesn’t say anything to Harry about it, letting him deal with things himself. Her only interference is words of encouragement and soft touches, letting Harry come back to reality on his own. Until finally it all comes to a head at the end of October and Y/N has no choice but to get involved.

They’re halfway through a double charms lesson when McGonagall comes running through the closed classroom door. Y/N and Hermione had been glancing at the door for the past hour, waiting for Harry to show up from Divination. She looks flushed, and she gestures for Y/N and Hermione to follow her.

“I’m so sorry for the intrusion Professor Flitwick, but I need to borrow Ms. Y/L/N and Ms. Granger for an urgent matter.” The door was still cracked open, and the class could now hear a loud commotion coming from somewhere below them.

Y/N and Hermione share a worried glance before they leave their seats and follow McGonagall. As they follow her downstairs and past the great hall the noise they heard earlier grows louder until all they can see in front of them is a sea of students. Y/N and Hermione share another worried glance before they follow McGonagall into the crowd.

“Out of the way! Students make your way to your classes now!”

Some of the students start to move towards their classrooms, while others merely move out of the way, still looking at something on the ground. They finally make it through the students and Y/N gasps sharply.

Harry is sitting on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest with his head down as he silently rocks back and forth. His body shakes with uneven breaths, and Y/N is sure he’s crying. She looks around and it dawns on her. Fred. They are standing in the corridor where the oldest Weasley twin had died, the ghost of his last laugh still on his face.

Y/N rushes over to Harry as Hermione helps McGonagall and Professor Slughorn disburse the large crowd that had gathered around him. She kneels next to him, and wraps her arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly.

“Shh, love. It’s alright. Everything is okay. Harry look at me. You’re fine,” Y/N tries to reassure. But he continues to rock, a mess of words quietly spilling from his lips. She leans in closer, trying to make out what he’s saying.

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Y/N can only make out a few phrases, but her chest aches with the pain that Harry must be feeling. Almost all of the students have vanished, so she can clearly hear someone rushing towards them. She looks up just in time to see Madam Pomfrey reach them.

“I’ll take it from here, Y/N dear. I’ll take him up to the hospital wing and I’ll give him a sleeping potion. I can’t imagine he’s slept much these past few weeks. It’ll be alright dear.”

Y/N hugs Harry tightly one last time before she steps away. Madam Pomfrey whispers something to Harry before helping him to get up. Professor Slughorn joins the pair, and they head off towards the hospital wing, most of Harry’s weight being carried by the other two.

Y/N, Hermione and Professor McGonagall all stand in silence, looking at each other. None of them know exactly what to say. They knew coming back to Hogwarts would be hard for all of them, especially Harry, but they had no idea it’d be this hard.

“Don’t worry about going back to class, girls. I’ll let Professor Flitwick know what happened and that I gave you both permission to not return,” McGonagall says with a sad smile before she hurries off towards the hospital wing.

Not knowing what to do with themselves, Y/N and Hermione trudge up to the Gryffindor common room. They collapse on to their favorite, softest couch in front of the fire, and Y/N can’t help but notice how quiet the common room is.

“Guess I’m just not used to being here during the day when everyone is in class,” Y/N thinks to herself, her eyes gazing at the empty fireplace.

Y/N and Hermione don’t speak, unable to find the words to express what they’re feeling exactly. It’s not until Ginny comes through the portrait hole with their things and settles onto the closest armchair that they find the words.

“it was so scary,” Y/N expresses once they’ve filled Ginny in on everything that has happened. Ginny looks horrified, and Y/N is sure that she and Hermione have similar looks on their faces.

“I’ve never seen him like that. I mean I could tell that he was having difficulties,” she pauses so they can all share a look of agreement. Harry and his small episodes had been a frequent topic of conversation in their dorm room at night. “But I never thought they would get to be that bad. He didn’t even look like himself.”

Ginny shakes her head and looks down at her hands.

“I mean I’ve felt, things in that corridor too,” she explains with a shaky voice, still not looking up at them. “But never anything like that.”

“I thought you said everything was getting better with him?” Hermione asks, turning her attention to Y/N, referencing the conversation the three of them had before Arithmancy a few days ago.

Y/N can feel Ginny’s eyes on her too, her cheeks heating up a bit at the harsh attention. She knows that Hermione and Ginny are just being intense because they care about Harry, but she can’t help but feel like she’s on trial.

Y/N just nods, giving herself a second to find the right words.

“I did say that, but only because that’s what he told me last weekend.” She pauses to clear her throat. “He had another episode on Saturday, up in the owlery. He went with me to mail a letter to my parents, and his eyes just glazed over. It was like he wasn’t there anymore, like his mind had taken him somewhere else.”

Y/N shivers as the blank stare Harry had comes rushing back to the front of her mind.

“I made him sit down and talk to me that night. I told him how scary those episodes or whatever were getting and that I thought it was time he talked to someone about them. I told him it didn’t have to be me. It could be Professor Flitwick or McGonagall or even Hagrid, that he just needs to talk to someone,” she pauses to look to Hermione and Ginny, who both give her reassuring glances.

“And he told me that he was getting better. That whatever happened in the Owlery was the first episode he’d had in a week and that his nightmares were getting better, that he hadn’t had one in days. I’m sure that was a lie though. With what happened today, and the fact that Madam Pomfrey and Professor Slughorn had to basically carry him all the way to the hospital wing I don’t think he’s slept in days,” she trails off, leaning back into the couch.

They don’t say anything as the common room begins to fill with students as everyone heads down to dinner. As they head through the portrait hole, trailing behind everyone else Y/N sighs.

“I just wish he would open up to me.”

-

The girls decide to do their homework in the common room that night, partially so Ginny can catch them up on what they missed in Charms, but mostly so they can wait for Harry to return from the Hospital Wing. However, he doesn’t return until well after midnight, long after Hermione and Ginny had gone to bed. Y/N had just begun to fall asleep on the couch, the fire dying in front of her and her mind heavy with thoughts of Harry when her boyfriend ambles in through the portrait hole.

“Harry!” she breathes excitedly, her energy somehow returning. She rushes to her boyfriend’s side, grabbing his hand gently and ushering him over to the couch. They both take a seat, but Y/N fights her urge to cuddle up close to him. They need to have a serious conversation, and she wants to be able to look Harry in the eyes. She, however, doesn’t release his hand.

“Alright, love?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Yeah, ‘course, just worried about you,” she pauses, pursing her lips. She wants to let him go up to bed, but if she doesn’t talk to him now she’ll lose all of her nerve. “You wanna tell me what that was?”

Harry looks away from her gaze, a red blush blossoming on his cheeks.

“I bet the whole school saw, huh?” he asks nervously, still refusing to look Y/N in the eyes.

She shakes her head. “Not the whole school. The only reason me and Hermione,” she pauses when Harry lets out a grunt of annoyance that Hermione had witnessed his episode as well. “The only reason we saw is because Professor McGonagall came to fetch us from Charms. She probably was hoping we could talk you out of it.”

She pauses, giving Harry’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

“I figured something was up since you didn’t show up to Charms. So, you wanna tell me what happened?” she asks, letting a little bit of annoyance creep into her tone.

Harry blushes harder, ashamed that he had tried skirting the question. Y/N is the only person that he’s never lied to. Partially because he can’t bring himself to ever hurt her, but also because she is the only person he’s been comfortable enough with to share every single thought and feeling he’s ever had.

“I’ve been trying to work that out myself on my way back here from the Hospital Wing,” he admits sheepishly. “One second I was on my way to Charms and the next I was sitting on the ground with you next to me.”

He pauses, swallowing the lump that appears in his throat. Y/N squeezes his hand, encouraging him to continue.

“I was coming from the North tower; people were everywhere walking to class or outside for their break. Everything was normal. I was thinking about tomorrow’s quidditch practice when all of a sudden I realized where I was, where I was standing and then suddenly I wasn’t on my way to class anymore. I was back in the castle that night, watching Fred, George and Percy walk down the corridor. They were talking, getting along and then I watched it, like it was in slow motion, Rookwood was casting a curse at the wall next to them, the wall crumbled, and Fred was trapped underneath it.”

Harry pauses to take a deep breath. He had started to shake slightly and could feel cold sweat running down his neck. Y/N rubs small circles on the back on his hand with her thumb, letting him collect himself.

“I felt so helpless,” he confesses. “Like I could have done something to stop it. Like it was all my fault.”

Y/N waits a few minutes to see if Harry is going to continue before she speaks.

“But love that’s the thing, there was nothing you could do. Everything that happened that night, Lavender, Fred, Tonks, Remus, they chose to fight. They knew the risks and they did it anyway. And that’s not your fault, Harry. Harry, look at me.”

Harry blinks away the few tears that were puddling in his eyes before he turns to look Y/N in the eyes.

“It’s not your fault.”

Harry feels like she’s speaking directly into his soul.

“But I feel like it is. Like there was something more I could have done. Like there’s still something I can do,” he explains.

Y/N scoffs at Harry, shaking her head.

“You are so daft Harry, honestly,” she says, tugging him closer to her. “Nothing that happened that night is your fault. Without you doing exactly what you did Voldemort wouldn’t have been killed. If it wasn’t for you the diadem wouldn’t have been destroyed. Without you going into the forest when you did the horcrux in you wouldn’t have been destroyed. Without you we’d all be living in a different world.”

Harry lets her words settle in before he speaks again. “But even so, it still feels like there’s so much more to fight for. Like I need to fight every day so that they didn’t die in vain.”

“So, who didn’t die in vain, love?” Y/N asks, though she has a feeling she already knows the answer.

“My parents! And Sirius, and Mad-Eye. Fred, Remus, Tonks. Dobby, Lavender. Hedwig,” his voice cracks on the last word, a small sob coming from his throat afterwards.

“Oh love,” she whispers, fully embracing Harry now. “You can’t carry the weight of all that on your shoulders. All of those people, they didn’t die in vain. They died knowing that you were going to save the world. And you did, love. It’s sad that they died, yes, but you can’t keep fighting a battle you’ve already won.”

Harry presses his face into Y/N’s neck, taking a deep breath. Her scent washes over him and he can’t help but feel like he’s at home. He peppers a few kisses to her warm skin before pulling away so he can look at her.

“You’re right, love. You’re absolutely right, and thank god you are,” he chuckles, for what feels like the first time in months. “I’ll work on dealing with this, I promise. Because it’s honestly dreadful, today was the first proper sleep I’ve gotten in weeks. It’s exhausting feeling like this.”

Y/N smiles at Harry, leaning in to give him a deep kiss.

“Thank god I can stop fighting, because honestly I’d rather be a lover than a fighter,” he says as he pulls away, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

He leans in to kiss her again, but Y/N only lets his lips brush hers before pushing him away with a laugh.

“Whatever you say, lover boy. But you better still fight on the quidditch pitch because there is no way we aren’t bringing home the Quidditch cup in our final year.”

Harry laughs along with her, kissing her fully this time.

[lykegenia]

The Dragon Knight’s New Clothes

The speed with which Davion left Hauptstadt left him no time to pick up clothes, so now he's back to square one and very much missing enough layers to cover up his... secrets. When he and his companions stumble on a farmstead his prayers seem answered, but there's also the other matter, the reason why he had to flee Hauptstadt in the first place, and the fear that it will happen again. Set between Episodes 2 & 3. 

Hints of Davion x Mirana

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Read on AO3

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Normally, Davion is perfectly fine with silence in his travelling companions. The life of a dragon knight requires long hours on the road, not all of which can be filled with talk, even on the days where there’s no hunt to keep the quiet. But normality seems to have taken its butterfly wings elsewhere for him lately, and the current silence is getting awkward. It’s just him and Mirana. Marci took Sagan scouting shortly after sunrise and left them alone together, and while she seems content with their current situation, she’s also the only one between them wearing clothes. She doesn’t have to worry about the strength of errant breezes finding their way to places, and she has the weight of a weapon at her side as insurance against any trouble they might run into. Her feet aren’t slipping around sockless and blistered in too-large boots taken off a dead man.

A man he tore to pieces.

He swallows, glances to his companion to take his mind off the remembered taste of blood in his mouth. Her shoulders are loose, her gaze soft and hair flowing where the wind lifts it back from her face, the unassuming brown sparking copper in the dappled sunlight. He swallows again.

“Soooooo…”

“Is there a problem?” she asks, slowing a little. A quizzical knot appears between her brows and he raises his hands in surrender.

“No problem!” he says. “It’s just… you’re quiet.”

“I was enjoying the peace.” If there’s a note of annoyance for his interruption it flashes too quickly for him to catch it.

“You must not get much chance to just stop and smell the flowers,” he supposes, after a moment. “Being a princess and everything.”

“There are always little things, if you let yourself look for them – but you’re right that my duties rarely allowed for anything more.”

Allowed. Past tense.

“You never snuck away to try something more fun?” He grins, and when she only quirks a brow at him he clears his throat. “No, never mind, I think I know the answer to that… I’m sure Marci will be back soon.”

She throws him a smirk. “Are you worried about her?”

“Actually,” he says, letting his thoughts tease out, “I’ve been wondering about you two.”

“What about us?” The smirk draws in, a warning that seems to dim the sunlight itself.

He shrugs. “She takes your orders, but you don’t exactly treat her like a servant or a squire, and you have that –” he waggles his fingers experimentally – “hand language. You must have known her a long time.”

She turns away from him, her eyes going to a bird cleaning its beak on the branches above them as her arms fold in a loose cross over her chest.

“We came to the Nightsilver Woods together, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says. “We were already companions before then.”

“Just the two of you?”

Something in the memory pains her. “There was no one else left.”

“What about Sagan?” he asks.

“A gift from my goddess, so that I might do Her work.” The smile comes back, and he’s glad for it. “He was adorable as a cub – so fluffy. He used to chase the reflections from my arrowheads.”

“I never had a pet,” he confesses, without quite meaning to. A memory of a mongrel begging at the back door for scraps threatens to pull him in, but it was a long time ago and his mind can’t conjure the dog’s appearance. It probably ended up like the rest of his village, anyway.

Mirana’s eyes find his face, too perceptive, too understanding. Before he can think of a new subject to distract her, he notices the birds have all gone silent. The undergrowth rustles nearby, concealing something huge. He darts forward, fists ready in place of a weapon, but an instant later he catches a flash of white and relaxes in recognition at the wide, blunt head that pushes out from among the trees.

“Sagan!��� Mirana ducks forward, arms outstretched, and the tiger butts her in the shoulder, purring like an avalanche as Marci slides down his back.

A brief conversation follows in the silent language the two women use between themselves, the signs made by their hands too fast for Davion to follow. He waits patiently, even dares to give Sagan a scratch under the chin, his fingers inches from the mouth full of sabre teeth the length of his hand.

Finally, Mirana turns to him. “There’s a farmstead about five miles west of here. If we’re welcomed it would be a good place to get some rest.” She throws a casual look over him and he resists the urge to tug the too-small cloak further around his body. “Perhaps we might also find you some better clothes.”

“I’d like that.” What he likes less is her singular ability to make him aware of his body – and not in the fun way.

She starts to lead off down the path but stops, sighs, her fingers going to pinch between her brows in an attitude of long-suffering patience.

“Ride Sagan,” she says. Orders, really. “It’ll save your feet.”

He can’t help but lean closer, grinning. “That’s surprisingly nice of you, princess.”

“And it’ll stop you slowing us down.”

He chuckles at that. Even in the few days they’ve spent travelling together he’s learned the difference between her wry mock threats and the times she truly intends to bite. As he winces over to tiger and vaults into the saddle, he almost misses the look exchanged between his two companions.

“How do I, uh, steer?” he asks. The neck in front of him is too short, the shoulders much broader than those of a horse, and there aren’t any reins.

Mirana smirks at him. “You don’t.”

--

They reach the farmstead as the sun is on its last descent towards the distant hills. Barley stalks sway gently under the wind as they climb the path to the house, and when a young teen tending vegetables by the back door spots them, Davion can hardly blame them for dropping their rake and running inside. The three of them don’t exactly make for an ordinary bunch of travellers, especially not with Sagan padding along behind them. There’s a stag slung over the saddle, intended as a sort of offering by Mirana, who took it down with one of her arrows before he even knew it was there. While most would follow the custom of hospitality without such a gift, they have only a few coins from the bandits he killed, and they need more than just shelter for the night.  

“Better let me do the talking,” he mutters as they pass into the yard. It’s not the first time he’s had to explain to some poor local that he’s not a marauding thug, and that was without the daunting presence of the war tiger at his back.

For a moment, Mirana considers, but nods and hangs back, passing a hand over her holstered bow as if to reassure herself it’s still there. With another self-conscious tug on his attire to make sure his decency is covered, he advances towards the farmhouse’s front door and as he passes a soft fragrance of thyme and lavender rises from pots placed beneath the windows, though it’s too early in the year for the buzzing of bees. A memory tickles at the back of his mind but he pushes it away before the herby scent can be tainted with ash, and in the instant it takes to centre himself the door swings open to a tall, broad woman with steel-grey hair and an iron brow who steps out just far enough to not appear suspicious.

“You’re an uncommon bunch, right enough,” she comments, her face half shadowed by the overhanging thatch. “What business have you?”

Davion offers her his most winning smile. “We’re travelling from Hauptstadt. If you have enough spare for a hot meal and room in your barn for the night, we’d appreciate it.” He gestures to his companions. “My friend here managed to take down a deer, and we’ll happily share it with you.”

“Half of it,” Mirana corrects, with a hand on her tiger’s shoulder. “And the hide. Sagan needs to eat too.”

The farmer passes a calculating look over them, lingering longest on Davion and the scars so clearly visible across his shoulders, but in the end he guesses their fearsome appearance works in their favour. Their would-be host shrugs. If such travellers wanted to pillage and burn, they’d have no need for subterfuge first.

“We’re always happy to have well-mannered guests, especially ones with news of the road,” she says. “At this time of year the stock is out so your cat will be fine in the barn. Just keep him away from the back field, I’ve ewes ready to drop and they don’t a need a fright to help them along.”

Mirana nods. “Thank you. Is there somewhere we can put the deer?”

If the farmer is surprised by Marci’s strength as she hauls the carcass off Sagan’s back, she doesn’t show it, only points to the gate set into the far wall to show the way to the outbuildings. “And you always dress like that, do you?” she asks a moment later, still eyeing Davion.

He glances down at himself as if it’s going to suddenly change the nature of his attire, but the princess answers before he can open his mouth.

“There was trouble with bandits.”

“Only for your friend here?” The farmer’s eyes narrow.

“We met on the road,” she says smoothly. “If you have some spare clothes, my companion would appreciate the return of her cloak.”

The farmer accepts the half-truth with a solemn shake of her head. “Some of my late husband’s things should fit you, though he never kept quite so trim as you seem to be.”

She beckons them into the house. Davion follows, ducking under the lintel to avoid knocking his head, but pauses when he realises Mirana isn’t behind him.

“I’m going to bed Sagan down,” she tells him. “I’ll join you shortly.”

He smiles, nodding, and resists the urge to reach for her as she turns away. Inside, the whitewashed walls split the house into two, a kitchen with a large, scrubbed table in the back, and a parlour of sorts with a gathering of chairs around a large fireplace that overlooks the garden. An old woman snores in the armchair closest to the window, but she doesn’t stir at the prospect of visitors, even though the stairs leading off this main room creak under Davion’s weight, the wood worn to a polish by generations of use.

“Tayran,” his host calls out as a young woman appears from one of the upper rooms, “go help your brother with the veggies, will you? We’ve three more mouth to feed tonight.”

Tayran, a few years younger than Davion and sporting the same square jaw and brown eyes as her mother, nods and ducks along the hallway, but not before she’s let her gaze rake along the expanse of his muscles not covered by Marci’s cloak. The smile he offers in return is friendly enough, but not encouraging. He needs the clothes more than he needs someone to take them off again.

Seemingly oblivious to the exchange, his host has gone on ahead to the main bedroom and has taken a key to a heavily locked chest in the corner by the washstand. She digs through it, muttering, though he notices she never quite fully turns her back to him, and after a moment she stands again, with a shirt, breeches, and quilted jerkin draped over her arm. After a pause where she casts a critical eye at his boots, she stumps over to a dresser and pulls a rolled pair of wool socks from one of the drawers as well.

“These are the best I can do,” she says, handing the ensemble to him. “Afraid we’ve no salve for those badly fitting boots of yours, though.”

“It’s no problem,” he replies. “I really can’t thank you enough.”

She huffs. “You can pay it forward. That’s what decent folk do. I’d best go see if yon slip of a girl has managed to get any meat off that stag yet – there’s plenty of room to change in the barn,” she adds, as she chivvies him from the room.

--

Dinner a few hours later is a crowded affair, the family’s meagre supply of chairs not enough to accommodate their guests, which means Davion’s legs are folded awkwardly around the tree stump serving him as a stool, his knees already bruised from all their accidental knocks to the underside of the table. The dim light for their meal comes from the fire and from a storm lantern hanging in the rafters in the centre of the room, and in the darkness beyond this the house groans and creaks as it settles for the night. After the disdain Mirana showed for the inn in Hauptstadt he wondered how she would react to such simple surroundings, but she nods graciously as their host ladles her a portion of stew and doesn’t complain that it’s being served with a wooden spoon. Marci is already tucking into hers as if she hasn’t eaten for days.

He smiles down at his bowl. The stew itself tastes good, the venison paired well with bacon and fresh vegetables, and it’s so thick the slice of bread he’s been given can be planted into it like a battle standard. Their host seems satisfied with their enthusiasm for her food, too. She has yet to sit down, her own portion left off as she pours a clear liquid into a motley collection of cups.

“Don’t knock this back,” she warns as she passes the drinks around. “It’ll beat you round the head like a club and go through your pockets for loose change.”

Davion can’t resist. He makes a great show of tasting the liquor. “A fine vintage, ma’am. Comparable to an Icewrack white, I’d say.”

Opposite him, Mirana narrows her eyes, like she wants to kick him under the table.

“My, you’ve expensive tastes,” their host rumbles. “You won’t find anything half so fancy in these parts.”

“Oh? Shame.”

“Where have you been that serves Icewrack white?” the elder asks from the head of the table. It’s the first Davion’s heard her speak, and her voice is cracked with age and suspicion.

“Oh, a few places,” he answers, careful. “I’ve spent most of my life travelling.”

“You must have many stories,” says Tayran, leaning forward on her elbows while her younger brother rolls his eyes next to her.

“Some, I suppose.” Davion shrugs. “My – uh, I had a friend who was much better than telling them.” He can’t mention having a squire; it would invite too many questions.

The elder seems content with him, but then her eye swivels towards Mirana. “What about you?”

“Mama,” their host chides. “We don’t interrogate our guests.”

Mirana sets down her wooden spoon. “It’s alright. We came from further west, on business.”

“Wrong time o’ year to be travelling the high passes.”

“My business could not wait,” she replies. Not for the first time, he wonders what calamity must have drawn her from her woods, put the grit in her voice as she speaks of it.

“And what about you?” Tayran asks him. Her eyelashes flutter. “If you’re looking for work you’d be far more likely to find it back in Hauptstadt, or on one of the farms in the valley.”

He disarms her with a grin. “And leave my companions without a defender? My honour wouldn’t allow it.” He shrugs elaborately. “I’ve got some friends near Levinthal who should be able to help me after I go that way.”

“More people who owe you favours?” Mirana asks, casually enough, though it’s clear she hasn’t forgiven him for the cockroaches that came included with the last one.

“It’s likely just as well you travel together,” their host interrupts. “There’s rumours of some sort of monster roving about these hills. Someone found bodies ripped apart not a week’s journey from here, and whatever it was killed a dragon knight an’ all. Dangerous times, these.”

The chill that grips Davion’s spine doesn’t go away, nor the knot in his stomach that feels like another gang leader’s ring just waiting to be hocked up onto the table. Mirana and Marci both have stilled to watch him, but he doesn’t meet their gazes. Instead, he draws in a breath and stretches his best tavern-pleasing smile across his revulsion.

“Thanks for the warning,” he says. “We’ll be extra careful.”

The conversation moves on after that, well into the night. On isolated farms like this one, travellers may bring the only news of the outside world for weeks, and new stories of far off places are always welcome. Finally, drowsing under the effect of the wine and the full meal and with the supply of fire logs running low, Mirana rises to make their excuses for the night. They have an early start in the morning, and don’t want to trespass any further, she says. Davion follows.

In the doorway, however, an unexpected hand reaches out in a caress across his chest that stops him before he can make it out into the cold. His breath fogs as he turns, finding Tayran in the shadowed alcove where the family keeps their coats, the smile on her face one he’s seen on more than one young woman on his travels.

“It’ll be cold tonight, you know,” she purrs.

From the corner of his eye he sees Mirana pause at the sound of the voice, but when he turns fully she’s already resumed her pace, perfectly measured, her shoulders straight, and he wonders if he imagined it. Tayran’s hand moves up to cup his cheek, to bring his attention back to her.

“If you want a better offer than a draughty old barn, I’d be happy to oblige. If you’re not already spoken for, that is?”

“You mean with –?” He coughs. “No, I’m not. We’re not, ah – like that.”

She steps closer. “Good. Would you like to hear more about my offer?”

--

When he lets himself into the barn a little time later, bright moonlight spills around him, though his eyes take less time to adjust to the unlit interior than he expects. An oil lamp glows in the far corner.

“Your ‘better offer’ fell through then?” a voice chimes through the darkness, low with disdain.

He finds Mirana with Sagan’s head in her lap, running a soft brush over the tiger’s fur, her scowl and the sour curl of her mouth revealing the nature of whatever else she wants to say. She doesn’t look at him. His own anger rises in response.

“I didn’t take the offer,” he snaps, quiet enough not to disturb Marci. “Not that you have any reason to care.”

“I didn’t want to waste time looking for you in the morning.”

But the gaze fixed on him now flickers with calculation, the same astuteness she turned on him after he let the elf go, as if he’s a puzzle box with no clear solution.

“She was a pretty enough thing,” she comments as he unfolds a horse rug over the straw as a makeshift bedsheet. “Many men would have gone after her.”

“Yeah, well – I’ve said it before.” He throws his head down on his folded arm. “I’m not most men.”

Now more than ever, he thinks ruefully as silence descends again. If he were the sort of person who believed the gods cared at all he’d wonder if they turned him into… whatever he is… as a punishment for hubris. For a little harmless flirting. He yanks the blanket up to his chin and rolls over – he’s slept in less comfortable places, but that doesn’t make the cold, prickly ground any less frustrating. A bed would have been much better. A bed with a bit of fun thrown in, for the both of them, and yet he chose to leave, and he’s going to go mad trying to work out why.

“You’re afraid,” Mirana says into the quiet. “Worried that what happened at Hauptstadt – what you became – that it’ll happen again.”

After a long moment, he unclenches his hand and sighs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“For what good it will do, I can watch over you, if you like.”

He shifts. The offer feels unfamiliar. A dragon knight is sworn to protect others, and though the rational part of him knows if he does turn she’ll be dead before she realises it, there’s a warm glow of comfort from the assurance in her voice. She asks nothing of him, only honesty.

“If the transformation happens…”

“I’ll shoot you.” He hears the smirk.

“Thank you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, willing away the images his mind conjures, her blood on his hands, and prays to whichever gods are listening that if the worst comes her draw will be fast enough.

[vampiregirl1797]

Long Time, Time to See

Jasper Hale x Reader

 GIF Not Mine

 Warnings: a little fluffy, not my fluffiest.

 Word Count: 6,556

 Click Here For Masterlist

 Summary: Y/N is a vampire that the Olympic Coven first crossed paths with after Carlisle created Rosalie. Intrigued by their choice to live by the same lifestyle choice, she stuck around for a decade, but eventually left to do some travelling on her own. Of course, she dropped in on them over the years, and over the visits a bond was formed between her and the Cullen’s—she came to see them as family. Despite her intense love for all five of them, she was closest with Edward, though she didn’t see him as family. Edward became best friend to her—though both agreed that term was pathetic in fully describing the connection they shared. While they were platonic for the most part, neither had qualms against satisfying their needs when the instinct arose, and it worked well for them because neither attempted to make it something more than it was. It’s been a while since she’s paid the coven a visit, so long in fact that she is unaware that the coven has two new members. How will she and a certain blonde vampire react when they discover that they’re mates?

 I didn’t realise how long it had been until I really stopped and thought about the last time I’d seen them. Time moves so quickly when you become a vampire that you just get used to it, it becomes meaningless because it has no affect on you—you don’t age, your friends don’t age, so what’s the point in keeping track? You have all the time in the world to see whatever you wish to see, and if your friends and family are also immortal then the same principle applies. Fifty years could pass since you’ve seen the coven you call family and it can feel like it’s only been a week.

 And it did. It only felt like a month ago when I was last with Carlisle, Esme, Rosalie, Emmett and Edward. It had been just after Rose had bought the curly haired boy to the blonde vampire, begging for him to be turned into one of us. I’d stayed for about a decade after that and remembered being happy as I observed the way Rosalie lit up for the first time in her immortal life—how she finally embraced the second chance she’d been given and started living again. It had been a relief for everyone—especially Edward, I remembered with a snort; Carlisle had been trying to subtly push his oldest and newest creation together for years at that point. The Doctor was wonderful at many things, but matchmaking was most definitely not one of his strengths.  

I’d eventually left them again at the end of fall in 1945, claiming that I wanted to see New York in winter. It had been a lie and it was something I often did. Even though I loved them all as family and I was sure they returned the favour, I worried about overstaying my welcome, and so I forced myself to leave before they could ask. I didn’t usually stay away for long, certainly not over sixty years, but like I said it was easy for time to pass by when you were a vampire. As soon as I’d become aware of how many years had actually passed, I booked myself a flight from London to Washington—just because I hadn’t seen them face to face, I’d still kept in touch via letters. They liked to joke that I was stuck in the nineteenth century due to my preferred method of communication, but I didn’t care—writing letters felt more intimate to me. In Edward’s last letter he mentioned that his family were living in a small town known as Forks in Washington—I’d been there the last time they’d settled in that particular town. As I drove my rented car to their house I idly wondered if there were still any werewolves around for them to keep the treaty with. I supposed I’d have my answer soon enough.

 I felt a sense of familiarity wash over me as I passed the “Welcome to Forks” sign and I sensed a wave of security wrap around me like a soft blanket as I caught the familiar sent that would lead me to my family. I’d truly missed them, and I swore right there and then that I wouldn’t let so much time pass without visiting again.

 It didn’t take me long to reach the familiar but updated mansion in the middle of the woods—beside some modern improvements it hadn’t changed much and as I stepped out of the vehicle I’d rented I couldn’t help but grin at the memories that washed over me. Teaching Emmett how to hunt. Helping him wrestle with Edward. Shopping trips with Esme and Rose. Playing piano with Edward. Reading with Carlisle.

 A happy sigh fell from my lips as I gracefully slung my bag over my shoulder and made my way up the concrete steps. I was about to knock, because even though I knew I was always welcome here I could sense several scents I couldn’t recognise and I didn’t want to alarm anyone, but a rustle of wind caused me to whip around. A grin grew on my face and I dropped my bag by the door before taking off at full speed, following the scent that was so familiar and comforting despite so much time apart. I knew he’d be able to hear my thoughts with more clarity the closer I got, and I thought about manipulating my shield so that I could shock him. But another scent had me thinking better of it—it smelled like he was with a human? I couldn’t be sure because the two scents were so entwined together, but I thought the element of surprise wouldn’t be best if he were with someone I could potentially send into cardiac arrest.

 I slowed when I reached the familiar meadow, and I had about two seconds to see him lying next to a very human girl surrounded by grass and flowers before I was suddenly on the ground.

 ‘Edward!’ It meant to come out as a reprimand, but that was difficult when I was so happy to see him.

 ‘Y/N!’ He mimicked my tone, pulling me up from the floor and into a fierce hug that I returned with the same enthusiasm, ‘what are you doing here?’

 ‘I can’t stop by to visit my favourite people?’ I gasped, a mock-offended expression forming on my face but it fell into mirth when he rolled his eyes.

 ‘Of course you can, you just usually give notice.’ He pointed out, winding an arm around my shoulders as we started to walk. I realised he’d flashed me about fifty feet from the meadow before he’d tackled me and I idly wondered why.

 ‘I didn’t want to scare Bella.’ He answered my thoughts, ‘she knows what I am, but she’s not met other vampires outside of my family before.’

 ‘Ah, you’re scared I’m going to bite her.’ I nodded, winking to let him know I was jesting when he looked concerned that I’d taken offence, ‘so you have a girlfriend. I’ll take it that means sex is off the table this time, huh?’

 He gave me a look that made me chuckle and after a moment, he joined in.

 ‘I guess I’ll leave then.’ I sighed, shaking my head in faux disappointment, ‘I only came for a good roll in the sack.’

 He playfully shoved me away, laughter on his expression that I’m sure was mirrored in mine.

 ‘Stop.’ His tone was still light but a seriousness entered his eyes as we approached the edge of the clearing, ‘I haven’t told Bella about you yet, and I don’t want her to get the wrong idea before I’ve had a chance to explain.’

 ‘It’s not much to explain.’ I shrugged, crossing my arms over my chest, ‘I’m your best friend that you have sex with sometimes.’

 His expression became exasperated, ‘I’m not sure she would understand or be satisfied with that explanation.’

 ‘She should be. I mean, I love you Edward, but I’ve never loved you that way, and neither have you, which is why the whole casual sex thing between us worked so well. We both knew it wasn’t anything more than satisfying our own urges, and it didn’t change anything in our friendship.’ I said, curiously looking over towards the brunette who was patiently waiting for him in the centre of the meadow, the sunlight hitting her face and highlighting the flush on her cheeks.

 ‘You’re right, I just don’t know how she’ll take that,’ he sighed, tucking his hands into the pockets of the tan leather jacket he was wearing.

 ‘Well… you don’t have to tell her, I suppose, but then you run the risk of Emmett or Rose making a snide comment around her when they realise I’m back.’ I pursed my lips as I thought it over, ‘you know how they like to tease you, and I’d imagine now you have a girlfriend she would be the perfect pressure point to get your blood boiling. I mean that metaphorically of course.’ I flashed him a grin that he reluctantly returned, ‘I’d be honest with her, Ed. If she finds out somewhere else, it’ll do more damage in the long run—she’ll think you didn’t say anything because it meant more to you than it did blah blah blah. Just be open about it.’

 ‘You’re right.’ His smile was soft then as he pulled me in for another hug and murmured, ‘I missed you. Don’t stay away so long, okay?’

 ‘I’m sorry about that, I don’t know where those decades went.’ I shook my head in disbelief as I pulled away, ‘but it won’t happen again, I promise. Now go back to your girl, she’s getting impatient.’ I gestured over to where she was now pacing, ‘I’ll let you introduce me after you’ve given her the information.’

 ‘Thanks, Y/N.’

 ‘You’re welcome, darling.’ The endearment was a habit I’d picked up in London about a decade ago, and I could see the amusement shining in his eyes before he headed back to Bella.

 I turned and ran as soon as he was back to her, figuring he deserved the privacy. Plus, if he was going to tell her about me now, I’d rather not be around encase her reaction wasn’t positive. I mean I’d basically had a “friends with benefits” relationship with her boyfriend for eighty years; I couldn’t exactly blame her if that description didn’t inspire her desire to meet me.

 It didn’t take me long to get back to the house and I noted that my bag was no longer where I’d left it as I climbed the steps once again. This time I didn’t think about knocking—I figured my luggage being abandoned on their doorstep was warning enough—so I just walked in.

 ‘Carlisle? Esme?’ I said, my voice no louder than what I used in a normal conversation. I was about to call out for Rose and Emmett when my arms were suddenly full of a female blonde haired vampire.

 ‘Y/N! It’s been so long, I’ve missed you so much!’ Rose breathed into my ear as she embraced me—if I’d been human my spine would have been snapped in half at the force she was using, but I returned it tenfold, beyond happy to see her again.

 ‘I missed you too, Rose.’ I told her, a surprised squeak leaving my lips when we were both suddenly lifted. But when his scent surrounded me I laughed loudly, ‘I forgot how much of a man handling brute you are, Em.’

 ‘Wow. Back thirty seconds and you’re already pulling out the insults, Y/N?’ He shook his head, a wide grin stretching across his dimpled cheeks, ‘I’m impressed.’

 I laughed again, the sounds of two different kinds of wind chimes echoing off the walls, along with a big booming laugh that almost drowned us out.

 ‘Is that Y/N’s laugh I hear?’ Carlisle’s voice caused Emmett to release Rose and I. As soon as I was back on the ground, I was in my adopted father’s arms, ‘I know you’ve already heard it, but we’ve missed you.’

 My eyes glazed over with emotion but I hid it in Carlisle’s chest—if Emmett saw he’d never let me live it down—as I told them how I returned the sentiment in a soft voice. After a few more moments the male blonde vampire released me so that Esme could hold me as well. I’d had to really fight to keep my composure then—the two heads of the coven had become surrogate parents to me, and their embrace always made me feel at home and safe. It was a feeling I’d never experienced anywhere else in the world, and it was something I never took for granted. I appreciated them and their love more than I would ever be able to vocalise, and I was always reminded of that whenever I returned to them.

 It took a few moments before I was confident enough that I could speak without making my emotions obvious. When that time came, I pulled away from Esme, smiling when Rose linked an arm through mine and led me to the living room.

 ‘So what have I missed?’ I asked as I sat in between Rose and Em on the sofa. Carlisle and Esme squeezed together on the loveseat opposite, ‘I’ve noticed the new scents…?’ I trailed off, the question obvious in my tone—new members to the coven hadn’t come up in any of our letters.

 ‘Yes. Jasper and Alice, they found us actually.’ Carlisle smiled at my surprise, ‘Alice is gifted with visions of the future. When she was turned, she saw the life she would come to have and after picking up Jasper along her way, they found us and have been with us ever since.’

 I suspected there was more to the story than that, but I also knew that Carlisle respected everyone’s individual right to their own background. I could feel curiosity burning in my stomach but I ignored it, knowing that the male blonde vampire wouldn’t tell me anything, if I wanted answers I’d have to ask them directly. And that was fine, it was one of the things I respected about Carlisle—he understood the importance behind privacy.

 ‘That’s amazing. Where are they now?’ I wondered, more than eager to meet the new members of the coven.

 ‘They’re on a hunting trip. They should be back tomorrow morning.’ Esme smiled and I nodded in response.

 We chatted for a little while longer about where I’d been, what I’d seen and why it’d been so long since I’d been back. They seemed to understand that I hadn’t stayed away on purpose, after all they were immortal too; they knew how fickle time could be. But as we caught up I could feel anticipation bubbling up in my gut as I thought about meeting my new family members. I wondered what they would be like, how they would react at my presence—if Alice saw the future did that mean she’d seen me coming? Either way, I was half excited and half anxious over the whole prospect of the introduction. I found myself hoping Edward would be back before then—he was my best friend and he understood me better than anyone, and would therefore help me feel calmer, but I also knew he was a little preoccupied with his human. But that was okay. I was a big girl and it wasn’t like I was being asked to set myself on fire. I was just meeting new people. That’s it. But I couldn’t help but wonder—why was I so nervous?

 //

 It was reaching twilight outside when I proposed the idea of hunting. Carlisle and Esme declined as they’d already been out earlier that morning, Rosalie hadn’t but she wasn’t that thirsty, so it was just Emmett and I.

 As most things did whenever I was alone with Em, the hunting trip turned into a competition. The one with the biggest kill would be the winner and as we began I felt the swell of excitement vibrate throughout my body. I hadn’t felt this free and slightly childish since I’d left all those decades ago and it was wonderful. Due to the circumstances, the trip didn’t last very long as we both rushed to find the perfect kill. In the end, Emmett won. He managed to take down a deer that was slightly bigger than mine and he was still teasing me about it as we returned to the house.

 ‘All that time away has really turned you into a softie, huh?’ Em goaded, his hand laying across my shoulders as he squeezed me into his side, ‘too scared to take down the really big ones?’

 ‘Shut it, brute.’ I rolled my eyes, but the smile on my face told him that I wasn’t really annoyed, ‘this is the first and only time you’ll ever win against me, so I suggest you bask in this fleeting glory.’

 He threw his head back, his signature booming laugh echoing off the walls as we entered the mansion. I tried to playfully shove him away, but the force required to break his hold on me would have sent him flying through the wall and I didn’t think Esme would appreciate it. He just pulled me tighter against him and started to ruffle my hair with his other hand.

 ‘Damn it, Emmett,’ I groaned in irritation and mirth, ‘get off me you heathen!’

 I heard a few other laughs join in with Emmett’s and I assumed that meant he’d managed to drag me into the living room—I couldn’t actually see because my hair had fallen around my face like a dark curtain due to his shenanigans.

 ‘Let her go Emmett.’ Rose chuckled and I breathed a sigh of relief when he complied. I brushed my hair back to where it was supposed to be and sent her a grateful look.

 I was just about to ask where Edward was when the sound of two pairs of footsteps approaching the house reached my ears.

 ‘Sounds like they’re back,’ Esme smiled and stood from her seat on the couch to greet them.

 Carlisle came to stand beside me, a hand on my shoulder and I shot him a grateful smile when I realised he could sense my growing anxiety. My breath ceased when they entered. Alice was small and graceful; her pixie hair cut making her look like a delicate fairy rather than a deadly vampire. Here eyes were golden and the excitement shining in them answered my earlier wonderment—she had seen me coming. But it wasn’t her that made my whole body feel like it was burning in the most pleasant way possible. It wasn’t her scent that made a tidal wave wash over me, leaving behind a feeling of warmth and security. Being on the other end of her gaze didn’t make my knees feel weak and my breath quicken.

 The vampire responsible for all of these reactions was stood beside Alice, his curious golden gaze on mine. His hair was blonde, wavy and cut to just below his jawline. His skin was covered in scars, all in the shape of teeth and the different sizes indicated they were from multiple assailants rather than just one. I wanted to know the stories behind each of them, I wanted to trace them with my fingertips and erase any painful memories with my touch.

 I shook my head, shaking away my wondering thoughts—what the hell was happening? I’d never had this kind of reaction upon meeting someone new before—like a connection had instantly been formed without a word needing to be spoken. It was odd. It was crazy. I took a deep, unnecessary breath and forced a smile.

 ‘It’s nice to meet you both. I’m Y/N, but I have a feeling at least one of you already knew that,’ I teased, winking at Alice’s knowing look.

 The small girl chuckled and bounded forward, wrapping her arms around me and murmuring, ‘we’re going to be great friends, Y/N!’

 ‘I don’t doubt it.’ I assured her, my nerves dissipating momentarily in her bubbly presence.

 When she pulled away and stepped to the side I felt my nerves return as I made eye contact with Jasper. He appeared to be concentrating on something and a moment later I felt a sense of calm spread throughout my body, that only seemed to strengthen as I took in a lungful of his scent.

 ‘Nice to meet you, Y/N.’ I had to fight to keep my eyes open at the sound of his voice—it was strong, husky and carried a hint of a southern drawl that made me want to groan. How was it possible for me to be this affected by him?

 ‘Nice to meet you.’ I managed a small but sincere smile that he returned. I had to force myself to look away, lest my breath stop again because of his beauty.

 I didn’t understand what was going on, but I did know that I needed some air. I couldn’t take an inhalation without breathing in his scent and that wasn’t helping me clear my head. That was making me want to leap into his arms and never leave. I wondered if his touch would make me feel as safe as his scent did, but I banished that thought as soon as it appeared.

 ‘I’m going to get some air.’ I said, hoping they didn’t detect the tremor in my voice as I flashed out of the house without waiting for a response.

 I made my way to the meadow I’d found Edward in earlier—it was a place we’d both discovered in the five years I’d spent with the family in Forks before I’d moved on. I remembered the night we’d found it—we were supposed to be hunting, but once we wondered upon this clearing we’d both had to stop for a moment and take in the beauty of it. It had been a clear night, allowing the moon and stars to shine through. Eventually Edward decided to leave but I’d stayed and stared up at the beautiful sky until morning; I’d always found something soothing about the moon and stars.

 Unfortunately tonight was cloudy, but that was more common than clear in Forks. But I lay back anyway, my eyes fluttering closed as I appreciated the soft breeze that blew through the flowers and grass, heightening the scents of the grass and flowers around me. My stress and anxiety had sky rocketed ever since I’d left the mansion, but being here and surrounded by nature helped quell it a little. Or at least, just enough so that I could think.

 It was interesting—now that I was alone, it was easier to separate my reaction to Jasper from the feelings of lunacy and foolishness that immediately followed. I suspected it was because having no one else around helped me separate it from reality, and so acknowledging the strength of my feelings didn’t make me feel idiotic or crazy. Instead it was easy to pretend that the way I suddenly felt connected to the blonde was normal. Even now as I lay in the centre of the rounded clearing, I was aware of the pull I felt towards him, like an invisible string now connected us together and urged me to return to his presence. That realisation should have resulted in the return of my earlier feelings, but instead I felt a wave of reassurance, as if that were completely natural.

 I had no idea what was going on, but I didn’t feel any urgency to question it in that moment. I sighed happily as the pull eased, and it took me longer than it should have to realise why that was happening. I’d been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t heard his approach, but his scent wrapped around me like a soft, warm blanket. As soon as I’d caught a whiff, I’d sat up, my spine straight as I focused my hearing to determine what direction he was going to come from. But apparently, my reactions had really been slow, because by the time I’d sat up, he’d reached the meadow.

 I took another deep breath, attempting to use the security that washed over me with his scent to provide me with the courage I needed to meet his eyes. But I chickened out and allowed my gaze to linger on the blue denim that covered his legs. I could appreciate the muscle definition even through the denim and the wish to see them not covered in fabric suddenly sprang up in my mind. I shook my head to clear it and noticed he’d sat down, crossed legged about three feet in front of me.

 ‘Hey, Jasper,’ I didn’t speak very loudly, wanting to keep my voice light, but it wasn’t as if he would have to strain to pick up my words, ‘what’s up?’

 ‘I was going to ask you the same thing. Why did you leave like that?’ he frowned and the sadness in his voice caused me to look into his eyes, ‘do you not want me?’

 ‘W-what are you talking about?’ I stuttered, had I really been that transparent in my attraction to him?

 ‘You’re my mate.’ He said as if it were the simplest thing in the world, ‘I thought you realised that when I felt your reaction to my presence.’

 My head was suddenly swimming with the information I’d just been given. Jasper was my mate? A sigh of relief fell from my lips, if that were the case then it all made sense. My sudden onslaught of feelings, the safeness, the security, and the attraction—I’d observed all of those characteristics as they appeared between Rose and Em. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t realised it sooner, and I was suddenly overwhelmed with such a strong bought of joy. I had found my mate. I’d never truly believed that would happen for me, that I would be lucky enough to find the person that completed me, that completed my soul.

 A sound of surprise fell from Jasper’s lips as I leaped into his arms, causing him to fall backwards; my arms wrapped around his neck and my face fit perfectly into the crook of his neck as I inhaled is scent. I felt his arms wrap around my waist and he used it as leverage to pull me tighter against him. A contented sound fell from both of us and if I hadn’t been so relaxed I would’ve laughed at the simultaneous action.

 ‘I’m sorry I ran.’ I murmured, my left hand trailed down to his chest and played with the buttons on his blue shirt, ‘I didn’t know what was happening, and feeling so much for you so soon made me feel like I was going crazy.’

 A chuckle fell from his mouth as he kissed my forehead, the gesture creating a surge of electricity to surge throughout my body.

 ‘It’s okay, I understand. If Alice hadn’t told me that I was going to meet my mate soon, I probably would have felt the same way.’ He assured me, his southern drawl becoming thicker as he spoke. I wondered if it was because he was relaxed, because we were alone, or a mixture of the two. Either way it sparked a bolt of arousal and I closed my eyes in an attempt to supress it.

 ‘What did you mean before when you said you senses my reaction to you?’ I wondered as the conversation replayed through my mind.

 ‘I can sense and influence the emotions of others.’ He said, his cool breath caressing the side of my face. I sighed at the warmth it left behind.

 ‘That sounds really… overwhelming.’ I pursed my lips as I contemplated that—it was similar to Edward’s gift in a way. Always having everyone’s emotions or thoughts just constantly buzzing in the back of your mind must have been irritating.

 ‘It was at first, but over the years I’ve learned to control it,’ his hand moved through my hair as he spoke, ‘sometimes it’s difficult, especially if I’m thirsty, but for the most part I’m used to it.’

 I nodded as best as I could with my head resting on his chest—I could relate to what he meant a little, and I told him so as I explained my abilities to him. I was a shield, which meant I had the ability to cast a shield around my mind or body, depending on the kind of attack I was facing. Edward had originally thought he couldn’t read my mind when we’d first met, only to be completely shocked when I’d felt comfortable enough to drop my mental shields around the family. For the most part I had control over when I would wield it, but if I were ever taken by surprise or felt threatened it would come forward and protect me.

 ‘Is it visible?’ he asked, curiosity shining in his tone.

 ‘It can be. It depends on whether I want people to know I’m using it or not.’ I said, rearranging our position so that he was sitting crossed legged again and I was I his lap, ‘I’ll show you.’

 I sent him an excited smile before I closed my eyes, concentrating as I willed my shield to wrap around us like a bubble. I felt the light on my face as it glowed bright blue, illuminating the meadow we were in. Jasper’s gasp of wonder made me smile and I pictured my shield rising off the ground by a few feet before I opened my eyes. I expected him to be looking at the glowing shield that surrounded us, and my breath caught when his golden eyes were fixed on me. I’d never been on the receiving end of a look so potent with adoration and awe.

 We moved together without thought, our lips meeting in a tender kiss that quickly became vigorous with passion. I had no idea if my shield was still keeping us afloat, but I didn’t care—a meteor could have hit the earth in that moment and I wouldn’t have noticed. I was completely overwhelmed with him; his intoxicating scent that was both sweet and spicy, his touch that was soft and smooth against mine, and his own skin that remained smooth despite the ridges that I felt as my hands slid down his arms. The moment was perfect and as our lips moved together as if we’d kissed a thousand times before, I couldn’t help the feeling of gratitude that joined all of the other emotions swirling throughout my body. Because I’d actually found him. My mate. My other half. And I was never going to take him for granted, because this connection, this kind of love, was a gift.

 //

 Epilogue: one year later, coming up to the newborn battle in Eclipse.

 ‘Honestly, the trouble that your mate attracts is astounding, Ed.’ I teased, twisting my body and allowing my arms to spin in circles like a child. I had to get the nervous energy out somehow—we’d all gathered for Jasper to train us on the best way to fight newborns successfully.

 I was excited to fight and nervous to potentially watch my mate get hurt, even though I knew that wasn’t likely—he was the most experienced in combat after all.

 ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Edward rolled his eyes, recognising that I was only jesting.

 A few of us chuckled when Bella smacked his shoulder and frowned when she ended up hurting herself.

 ‘She’s going to have more anger issues than you when she’s turned, Y/N.’ Emmett teased, his booming laugh echoing around the trees as I flipped him off.

 We all tensed as the footsteps of the approaching pack reached our ears. Ten of them stepped out of the shadows and I wrinkled my nose as their scent invaded the clearing. My eyes narrowed at the sound of their growling and I couldn’t help the invisible shield that expanded from me to cover my family. I stepped forward to stand beside Jasper, my fingers entwining with his protectively.

 ‘Hey there darling,’’ he smirked, the southern drawl coating his words wonderfully.

 I didn’t answer; instead I rested my head on his shoulder, knowing he could feel my anxiety already. I took a deep breath, comforted as his scent washed over me. I wished I could bury my head in his chest—I knew his arms would make me feel completely content—but I restrained myself, as it obviously wasn’t the time.

 ‘They don’t trust us enough to be in their human forms.’ Edward translated from where he was stood behind Jasper and I.

 I rolled my eyes, sure to keep my shield in place—if they didn’t trust us then I sure as hell wasn’t going to trust them.

 ‘I have a shield around us all,’ I murmured in Jasper’s ear, my volume low enough that the words stayed between us—and Edward seeing as he could read our thoughts—the blonde’s eyes met mine, his dark eyes shone with affection and assurance. I sent him a wink before we both turned to watch as the meeting officially began.

 Carlisle stepped forward, his behaviour calm and inviting, ‘welcome. Jasper here has some experience fighting newborns; therefore he can show us the most successful and efficient ways of defeating them.’

 ‘They wanna know how newborns are different from us.’ Edward said, his tone lower than how he usually spoke as he relayed the wolves words.

 ‘They're a great deal stronger than us, because their own human blood lingers in their tissues. Our kind is never more physically powerful than in our first several months of this life.’ Our leader answered, looking over at the blonde next to me and nodding at him to continue.

 Jasper squeezed my hand and stepped forward, turning his back to the wolves without hesitation and addressing his family directly. I noticed one of the wolves take a step forward at the sight of him being vulnerable and I bit back a growl, knowing we were all safe even if they did try to attack.

 ‘Carlisle is right. That's why they are created. A newborn army doesn't need thousands like a human army. And no human army could stand against them. The two most important things to remember are, first—never let them get their arms around you. They'll crush you instantly. The second—never go for the obvious kill. They'll be expecting that. And you will lose. Emmett? Don't hold back.’ Jasper smirked, gesturing for the curly haired vampire to come forward.

 They faced off and Emmett grinned, ‘not in my nature.’

 I bit my lip, folding my arms over my chest as I tried to force myself to stay still. Seeing your mate fighting—even against someone you considered family—was something I still struggled to witness. I don’t know how the others handled it, but I assumed it was something that would get better with time.

 Emmett went to charge towards the blonde haired vampire and I winced, my hands moving to cover my eyes involuntarily. I waited for the sound that would indicate they’d crashed together but it didn’t come. I was confused, but unwilling to look until I knew the coast was clear.

 ‘Y/N?’ Jasper’s voice sounded amused and I couldn’t help but drop my hands to see what had caused it.

 If I were still capable of blushing I was sure my face would be bright red in that moment—Emmett was surrounded by a separate shield that glowed an angry red and had lifted him ten feet off the ground. I’d seen my shield appear to protect me when I felt threatened, but this was the first time it’d reacted to save someone I cared about being in danger.

 ‘Do you think you could release Emmett?’ Jasper asked, mirth still present in his voice.

 I bit my lip to hide my smile as I slowly lowered the curly haired brunette before retracting the shield, ‘sorry about that.’

 I sheepishly stepped back, hoping that if I weren’t so close it would mean I wouldn’t be as tempted to interfere. My arm linked through Rose’s and I ignored her smirk and focused my attention on the front. I hadn’t realized how protective I could be until I’d met Jasper and if he didn’t return the sentiment just as strongly as I did, I would have felt awful about it.

 Emmett was charging forward with brute strength, but Jasper was moving too fast for him to catch. He kept trying, but his hands met air, and Jasper managed to catch him by surprise and throw him to the ground. The curly haired vampire attempted to retaliate but Jasper disappeared and re-appeared behind him, his teeth an inch from his throat. I smiled, amused and a little aroused by Jasper’s abilities to gain the upper hand so quickly.

 He gestured for me to come forward and I laughed when I saw he was paring me with Edward—he knew I’d bring up my mental defenses to prevent the mind reader from having the upper hand. While the bronze haired vampire was the fastest in our coven, I was the stealthiest and evaded his grasps easily. Though I had a little too much fun letting him think he had me in his grasp, only to move away at the last second. Eventually I put an end to it, leaping onto his back, my teeth an inch from his throat.

 ‘Got you.’ I smirked and jumped down, playfully shoving his shoulder as we moved out of the way to make room for the next pair.

 ‘Not so good without your parlor trick, Ed.’ I laughed when he shoved me three feet away from him, his eyes rolling when Jasper growled warningly.

 We fell further back and watched as the other pairs fought and I found myself much more relaxed now that Jasper settled into his role of instructor. He watched the others and offered pointers to help their stance, and didn’t lead another demonstration. Eventually we reached the end of the session, and I could see Edward’s relief as Bella was practically passed out against his side.

 ‘They want to know if you’d allow them closer to take in our scents. It’ll make it easier to avoid confusion during the battle.’ Edward said, his arm tightening around his human’s waist the sleepier she got.

 ‘Very well.’ Carlisle agreed.

 Jasper came to stand beside me and I dropped my shield with a sigh, not wanting to create any tension if they tried to step towards us only to be stopped by an invisible barrier. It was incredibly hard not to flinch as each werewolf stopped in front of each of us, tentatively sniffing before moving on. I understood that werewolves were people and I didn’t resent them because of their species or because it was in my “DNA” to despise them. I was on edge because I was aware of how much they resented all vampires. I’d heard plenty from them since we’d returned to Forks a few months ago, and I hated it. But they were helping us here, so I forced down my unease, which was a lot easier with Jasper by my side.

 Being loved by the blonde vampire made me feel an abundance of feelings. In that moment I was aware of how he made me feel powerful, confident and protected, so much so that the wolves passed by without me even noticing. As we made our way back to the mansion, running hand in hand, I realized why I’d been so calm about the upcoming battle. Even before the wolves offered their help when us winning wasn’t certain, I hadn’t been afraid, because I knew I’d have Jasper by my side throughout the battle and after.

 As long as I had my mate by my side, there wasn’t anything that we would have to face alone. And there wasn’t anything that would survive trying to hurt us or our family.

[bonjour-rainycity]

The Long Way Around ~ Chapter 14

Link to previous part: https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/624936041495822336/the-long-way-around-chapter-13-link-to-previous

Pairing: Jasper x Reader

Word Count: 1998

Warnings: None

Y/n’s POV

It’s dark when we reach the waterfall, and I’ve barely said a word. I spoke once to request a hunting stop, but aside from that, nothing. I know Jasper can feel my frustration, as well as my sadness. But, whether out of fear or respect, he gives me my space. When we reach the top of the cliff, he gives me a nervous glance.

“What are you thinking?”

I sigh, sitting criss-cross on the hard rock. Jasper sits as well a few inches in front of me. “I don’t like it. You, Esme, and Carlisle going all the way to Italy? I’ve heard the stories, Jazz, I know the Volturi are bad news.”

He shakes his head. “While they have a fearsome reputation, the Volturi are a generally respected group. They act for the good of all vampires, not just selfishly.”

Now it’s my turn to protest. “I don’t believe that. The implications of what Aro has done…it doesn’t bode well for this trip.”

Jasper smiles hesitantly, tapping a finger against his head. “If they’re planning something bad, I’ll know.”

I bite my lip, feeling no better than I did at the start of this conversation. “Even if you do have  a warning, you three will be ridiculously outnumbered! Your training and experience isn’t enough to overcome the odds of three against twenty. And even if it’s only the few core members, they still have Jane. I just,” I sigh, feeling helpless. “I just wish I was going with you.” Or better yet, that you weren’t going at all.

“I’m glad you’re staying here.” Jasper’s voice is confident, and I bristle. “Not because I doubt your capabilities,” he hurries, feeling my annoyance, “but because I worry of Aro’s reaction. Undoubtedly, he would pit you and Jane against each other to see who came out on top, and no one in that scenario has a good outcome. The weaker of you two would be disposed of somewhere down the line due to the threat they present, and the stronger would find a place in Aro’s guard. It’s best to keep you out of Aro’s presence for as long as possible.”

I groan, knowing he’s right. “But then how am I supposed to feel comfortable with you going to Aro? What if he decides he wants you to join him?”

“He does,” Jasper says simply, and I shoot him a look of exasperation. “But not as much as he wants Alice or Edward,” he continues, sounding calm and self-assured. “Aro knows that if he somehow obtained me during my trip to Italy, he would outrage my family and lose any chance of acquiring Alice and Edward, the true prizes. That’s why I feel relatively comfortable going to Volterra. Aro will have to make a choice, and I’m betting that he chooses to play the long game.”

“The long game Carlisle is going to try to end,” I deadpan.

Jasper offers me a smile. “Exactly.”

I sigh, still not feeling good about the situation. “You seem too confident.”

He leans forward, stopping only when his face is centimeters from mine. “I’m confident because I know that, no matter what happens on this trip, I will do everything in my power to make it back to you. Anything else just isn’t an option.”

I physically feel myself soften at his words and conviction, and close the space between us to kiss him. Too soon, he pulls back.

“How do you feel? I mean,” he shakes his head, bringing a hand up to rest on my neck. “I know how you feel, but do you want to talk about it? Battles are hard, and everything you’re feeling is perfectly normal. Lord knows I’ve felt it.”

I close my eyes and sigh, allowing his touch to bring me comfort. “I don’t know…everything we did today…all the people we killed…it all seems so distant, like it didn’t actually happen. It’ll probably hit me sometime when it’s really inconvenient.” I force a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. I’m not good with the heavy.

Jasper shakes his head, emphatic. “You did not kill anyone.”

I smile sadly. “I may as well have. I’m the reason Hélene and the other man are dead, as well as the guy whose arm I held while Arthur-” I swallow, and cut off my words.

Jasper pulls me in a tight hug. “I know you know this, but it really was kill or be killed. There were no other options.”

“I know,” I sigh, recognizing the truth in his words. Then, I soften, remembering his actions from earlier. “I probably wouldn’t have gotten out of there as unscathed as I did if it wasn’t for you. Thank you for keeping me safe.”

“Always,” he growls, kissing me firmly. And I believe him. Deep in my gut, I know that Jasper would give his life for mine, just as I would unquestionably do the same for him. That realization, along with the intensity of what I feel for him, is a little terrifying. I pull back, trying to distract myself with a question I’ve been meaning to ask.

“What about you? Did the battle today bring up any unpleasant…memories?” I feel his hand tighten in mine, so I’m surprised to look up and see the serene smile on his face.

“Fights always do, but it gets better with time. Especially now that I know what and who I’m fighting for.” His words, impossibly sweet and honest, hit right to my heart. I kiss him once more and then push back so we’re lying on the ground, my head on his chest. I love the feel of his arms around me, holding me close. I force down the still-lingering worries about his trip to Volterra and allow myself to just enjoy this time with him.

{***}

When Carlisle calls, warning that we need to be back at the house in two hours, both of our moods take a dip. The jump to the bottom of the waterfall doesn’t cure our spirits and really just leaves us soggy. We take the precaution of hunting extensively on the way home, wanting Jasper to be as comfortable as possible on the long flight. Still, I know he’s in for a difficult time, Esme too. I can’t even imagine being on a small plane, in such close quarters to dozens of mouth-watering humans, with the air recycling their sweet scent back to me over and over and over…And humans get injured all the time, what if one accidentally cut their hand on a knife or broken glass? Then, the blood would flow freely from them, and the scent would be tantalizing, irresistible…I would have no choice but to rush forward and sink my teeth into their soft, breakable skin, and drink freely.

I groan, pushing the deer away from me, and Jasper chuckles.

“Not doing it for ya?”

I shake my head, biting my knuckle as the burn in my throat flares. “It’s my own fault. I was thinking about the plane.”

He nods in understanding and pushes me lightly back toward my kill. I obey and continue drinking. The burn subsides somewhat, but the flimsy, weak blood does not satisfy my true desire.

“It will be difficult,” Jasper continues, leaning back against a tree. “I’ve done it a few times before and it was awful, but hopefully it will be a little easier this time, especially now that we’ve prepared like this. Besides,” he grins, darting out to bring me a stray rabbit, which I eye with hesitation, but still bite. “I’ll be too distracted thinking of you to focus on the humans.”

I laugh and toss the drained rabbit a few feet ahead. “Cheesy!” He tackles me then, peppering my face with kisses, and we dissolve into laughter.

I pull back, staring up at his face from my spot in the dirt. “You better call me though, when you land. And take pictures. And bring me a postcard.”

He mock-salutes. “Yes ma’am.”

He feels my attraction and buries his face in my neck, laughing once more. “Really? Ma’am?”

“Stop,” I whine through laughs against my own and try to push him off of me. He refuses to budge though, instead bringing his head back up to kiss me passionately. I wrap my legs around his waist but, before deepening the kiss like I want to, I pull back. “How mad will Carlisle be if you’re like, twenty minutes late for your flight?”

Jasper chuckles, his hair close enough to tickle my face. “I’ve never quite seen Carlisle angry, but I wouldn’t like to test it.”

We push our time limit as long as we can, another three minutes, then bury our kills and head back to the house.

Carlisle and Esme are ready to go, but Jasper still has to gather a few things. I throw some necessities on the bed while he takes the quickest shower known to man and, before I know it, it’s 4:34 on the dot and Alice is calling to us, saying that they have to leave in the next five minutes or they’ll be late. With one hand holding mine and the other holding a small suitcase, Jasper descends the stairs, me trailing behind. The sight of an entire suitcase, small as it is, had been upsetting. I was under the impression that this would be a quick trip needing only a backpack or satchel, and the presence of the suitcase threw me. But Jasper assured me that it was just a precaution; that they really didn’t intend to stay long. But still, it seems the length of their trip, and the issue of their return, would depend on Aro’s good graces. I force these terrifying thoughts down. He will come back.

The family is gathered by the front door, and Carlisle has already retrieved the car. He and Edward are engaged in a tight embrace, and Rosalie lays her head on Esme’s shoulder, promising to tend to Esme’s garden while she’s away. The sight makes me deeply sad, and I feel Jasper’s thumb rubbing soothing circles over my hand in response. Jasper sets down his suitcase and allows himself to be pulled away by Arthur, and I wait my turn to see Carlisle and Esme. When the time comes, I hug them both tightly, begging them to be safe. Esme caresses my cheek and Carlisle gives my hand a squeeze, promising that they’ll see me soon. Carlisle advises me to continue working on my desensitization and expanding my ability while he’s gone, and I hear my new siblings echoing their support. At least it will give me something to do, to help distract me from…

I’ve put it off for as long as I can, but the moment is here. When I turn to Jasper, I have to clench my fists to keep from dissolving into sobs. But he knows, he can feel it. And I can see his own anguish plainly on his face. I reach for him, and he takes my face in his hands, much like he did yesterday in the woods, and kisses me. I grip at his sides and back, trying in vain to pull him closer. Emmett, who is usually prone to wolf-whistles and suggestive jokes, keeps noticeably silent. Even he must feel the pain of our goodbye.

With considerable effort, I pull back just far enough to rest my forehead against his. His golden eyes bore into mine, the sadness in them evident.

I try for a smile. “Be safe. I’ll see you soon.”

He brings my hands up to his lips for a gentle kiss. Then, he turns, grabs his suitcase, and stalks out the door. Carlisle and Esme are already there and, in the next second, the car is screeching down the driveway.

I take a step back, feeling like a hole has just been ripped through my chest.

A/n A sad one! Let me know what you thought and if you would like to be added to the tag list!

xx, 

Bjr

Next part:

https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/625552318938611712/the-long-way-around-chapter-15

Tag list: @puer-de-infinitate @charliestuff @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @one-thread-can-save-a-life @salsameter @enchantedcruelsummer @meashy-moo @sana-li @femflorals @80strashbag @tomisbaeholland @heyimval13 @triscuitcracker @deviantly-gayy

[funkymbtifiction]

How I Write, How I Dream: ESTP Edition

Mod: An ESTP asked permission to submit this, since she noticed I do not have an ESTP ‘How I write stories’ description in the archive to match this series. What follows is in her own words.

ESTP: How I Write, How I Dream

So this submission is like 6+ years late topically, I think, but it’s an understatement to say I get side-tracked easily. First I had to be self-aware enough to actually determine my type with confidence, and then I had to remember to write this up. Hopefully it’s an edition that’s better late than never – in any case, I thought it might be fun to contribute, given the frequent lack of Se-dom voices in things like this.

I’m aware that I might be in a comparatively small group as a regular ESTP writer, let alone one familiar with personality typology, but I wrote my first short story at nine for a 4th grade assignment, and then my first full story/intended book when I was eleven, (both of which I immediately proceeded to act out on the playground), so it’s sort of always been a part of my normal retinue of hobbies/coping mechanisms/diversions/distractions. Usually I find that I write the most when I’m bored or otherwise dissatisfied with my real life – sort of using it to spice things up with more exciting events, even if they’re regrettably fictional. I also suspect that I use writing to experience all the interesting things I find myself unable to physically do, at least for the moment – not unlike what your ISTP contributor described. I think sometimes that I use it to subconsciously work through certain concepts, too, until I understand them holistically. It’s like it gives me a way to actually engage and interact with a philosophical concept through tangible expression – through embedding it into [fictional] human behavior. Like how I understand the nuances of the concept of apostasy better for having walked through the plot of Silence (2016) with Scorsese than I would have if it was still just a definition in a theology textbook. Application helps me. (I also had a counselor a while back who told me that I used my writing to work through the emotions I hate to process in real life, but I was never wholly convinced of that or the connection of my plots to my real life events, so jury’s out, I guess.)

When I was a kid, I liked to read a fair-ish amount. Spies were oftentimes my favorite topic, but I also wanted eagerly to be one and owned probably every kid spy gadget ever manufactured for sale at the Spy Museum in D.C., to which I dragged my parents practically every weekend so I could crawl through air vents, etc. However, my favorite children’s series of all was actually the Ingo series by the late Helen Dunmore, which provided me with exciting, nature-based, and [mostly] emotionally satisfying adventures in my lifelong favorite unpredictable environment – underwater. (I also dragged my parents constantly to our local aquarium.) As I got older, the frequency of my reading dropped, and I now find myself usually pulled more towards nonfiction.

[Note – I just realized a lifelong quirk with me and books. I’m sort of ridiculously set on *seeing* the books I own. I mean, I know what I own, but I still constantly get out every book I own on a particular topic just to see them all at once. It makes the knowledge more cohesive for me to concentrate it visually, I guess. Even just the covers. Anyway.]

My writing habits are kind of awful – in that, like alluded to above, I pretty much only write when I either a) am seized by a great idea, or else b) have nothing better to do. I have little ambition to actually publish or anything like that, regardless of encouragement, and I prefer to think of my writing as just a diversion, an amusement for myself alone (though I do crave minimal approval, as I do in anything). In any case, as soon as the pressure of a schedule is attached to my writing, it drains of all joy for me. Much like your ISTP contributor described, I think I hover somewhere between plotter and pantser, depending on the story. Too much planning leads to my feeling like I have no incentive to actually write it, as I’ve already experienced it, and too little leaves me spinning aimlessly with no real direction. I write both prose and screenplays, and the rule seems to hold true for both, overall. Also, whenever I have a problem in my plotting or characters or whatever, I find that I have to step away, go be busy with something else, sometimes for a long while, and when I come back everything just falls into place. I guess unconscious Ti and/or Ni finding solutions? I’m not totally sure how/why that happens.

As my inclusion of screenplay format may suggest, I experience my stories in an incredibly visual way. I think sometimes that my narratives come across very much like movies, with all the requisite limitations and usual lack of character introspection. I feel like I pretty much focus on the observable actions of my characters – I find describing any kind of extended rumination highly unnatural, at least most of the time. Even my planning is highly visual. I have a tendency to graph, chart, draw, and plaster my options all over the walls. It’s ridiculous sometimes, but in many cases I just have to be able to see them all next to each other, even if there’s no other information provided. Like my books, mentioned earlier. It helps clarify my plot choices in my mind. It’s also a quirk/weakness of mine that I am often entirely dependent on outside images for descriptions. I need to find a real person, place, or thing to base my fictional ones on physically if I hope to have any kind of concrete knowledge to allow description. Again, it helps solidify them/it in my mind.

I have another weakness in my writing that often results in much incredulous laughter – I’m often entirely blind to any hidden meaning or symbolism in my own writing. I might get the vaguest sense of something being a good line, but be unsure why until my ISFJ friend starts praising my deep, archetypal references and crafting – and then staring at me when I clearly have no idea what she means. It’s happened several times by this point, and though it makes me laugh, I’ll just blame it on the subconscious inferior Ni. I pretty much never have any kind of goal of being symbolic or laden with deep meaning. If I were ever to try that, I think it would massively stress me out.

In terms of editors, beta readers, or whatever else we want to call those who give solicited criticism – that’s just what I need/want. Criticism. For the most part, I’m incredibly thick-skinned about my writing and would be absolutely fine if someone told me that it was utterly terrible and the whole thing needed revising down to the very concept. That may be because I think many of my concepts are lackluster to start with. But nothing frustrates me so quickly as readers unwilling to actually [and harshly] criticize. I always tell them that I want him/her to rip it to shreds. I mean, that’s the only way it’ll get better. (I’ve made mistakes before by assuming that other writers feel this way, too – my sister did not appreciate my input.)

I write almost exclusively dramas these days, I guess, though of varying subtypes. (I also maintain the availability/ready accessibility of about 10+ stories at any given time of active writing. I bounce between them sometimes based on what I’m feeling like at the moment or what I have a new thought about.) I have a sort of historical drama thing that takes place in the 1680s, a modern drama prompted by a premise of genetic engineering, a Most Dangerous Game kind of hunting/weapons thing, a detective story in the immediate aftermath of WWII, a classic deserted island story, a thing involving the phenomenon of stigmata… the list goes on and shifts constantly.

However, while I’ve typically enjoyed writing, here’s the omnipresent rub – engaging with it for any great amount of time makes me really unhealthy emotionally. I’m pretty sure that after like two or three days primarily working on a story without other overriding priorities, or like six or seven with those scattered distractions, (at best), I’m plummeting straight down to my inferior functions. My historical stories do this even more quickly, because they oftentimes seem to require more mental effort. I get super irritable, drown in self-loathing, start to think that everything real that I want is never going to happen – it’s really not good. The fact of the matter is that while writing is a fun diversion oftentimes, I go insane doing it for too long, because I need to get out and engage. (Thanks to my pesky Se-dom, daring to ask for more than just incessant fidgeting.)

When I do write, however, I’m known for my in-depth research, my character-driven plots, lines some people in my life seem to think are witty or something, and emotional depth, believe it or not. I’ve been complimented on it, as well as my tendency to accurately portray mental/emotional illness. I don’t know. I’ve never thought I was overly talented at such things, but then again, I never paid much attention. Even this write-up has been hard – analyzing my writing like this. It’s not a strength of mine to scrutinize my own habits.

After all, I’m busy – I have to go blast Maroon 5 as I jump off a 20-foot wall yelling, “Parkour!”

I am an ESTP, remember? ;-)

[simpirals]

Down The Tunnels

(Read on AO3) So this is another collab with my very cool friend @stellarwhaleshark​ in which we wrote about Not!Sasha chasing Jon down the tunnels, ending it completely differently from canon. (Jon doesnt die dw) If you liked it,please let us know in the comments! ❤️ Reblogs are encouraged !  ❤️ Characters: Not!Sasha/ Not Them, Jonathan Sims (mentions of Timothy Stoker,Sasha James and Martin Blackwood) Warnings: body horror, stabbing, axe violence, generally spooky atmosphere Jon scrambled down the dark halls. Dark, unkempt hair with streaks of grey frame his face, which scans every nook and cranny in the impossible labyrinth before him. His breathing is ragged, and as he clutches his axe in sweaty hands, a laugh echoes out in the stale air. He is utterly terrified. And he had all the reasons in the world to be so. Something that wasn't his friend wore a face he used to deem as familiar, and that very same thing was out to hunt him down.

"Jooooonnn..." An uncanny voice echoes through the tunnels, reaching out to the man fleeing for his life. "Jooonnn… Why don't you stop running so we have a nice, friendly chat? With your Sasha?" Noises that weren't footsteps reverberated through the tunnels.

"Isn't it what friends do, Jon? Sit down and talk things out together? I promise you this won't take long."

The creature's voice lowered in a dangerous growl.

Jon's heart leapt in his throat as he desperately tried to find an escape from the thing chasing him. He didn't dare respond, fearing that if he focused on anything else except running, he would be caught. Despite the nagging in the back of his mind that told him that losing it was impossible, Jon forced himself to believe that somehow, some way, he could shake the impostor from his trail. But as far as he could see, the path only continued straight. Something scratched along the walls behind him, sending his feet into a more frantic pace. "Shit, shit!"

Having no other option but to continue forward, the Archivist wills himself to move as fast as he can to avoid falling victim to Sas- no, not Sasha. Whatever was chasing him was definitely not who it claimed to be, and that voice that taunted him was certainly not his coworker's... despite how familiar it sounded.

Jon had no time to turn around and watch his pursuer. But he didn't need to do that to guess that it had picked up its pace. It was coming, and it was coming fast.

"Jooooonnnnnnn !"

Its limbs scratch at the concrete walls as it advances rapidly.

"You'll just tire yourself out eventually, silly! What do you think will happen when you collapse on the ground, exhausted and vulnerable?"

Jon's paranoia makes him feel like something was breathing down his neck. But it was just the coldness of the air.

"I'll catch you. And then we'll be able to properly chat. Like friends! Friends do that all the time, don't they? Why are you doing this, Jon? Am I not a good friend to you? Isn't Sasha someone you can trust? You truly wound me, Jon!"

It almost sounded like it was trying to feign… sadness.

But Jon knew better than to listen to it.

He itched to scream back at it. To tell it that he knew it wasn't her, that it could never be Sasha. But instead, Jon grit his teeth and pushed onward. Then, to his left, he saw a dark patch in the wall. As he got closer, he noticed that it was an opening - another corridor. If he was fast enough, Jon could catch it off guard and use the weaving halls to his advantage. Jon let himself slow down a bit, and he could hear what wasn't Sasha gaining on him. Timing his movement just right, Jon skids over into the opening, turning his attention behind him to see the thing dash past with a growl of irritation.

Huffing a small laugh of victory, Jon turned around to gather his bearings of the new hall, but rather than seeing branching pathways, he instead saw concrete walls encasing him.

"Oh, no... no, no no--"

The monster slammed its claws down on the cold ground with satisfaction, cutting off the path to Jon's only escape.

"Found you, Jon."

There was a sickeningly triumphant grin to its voice as it slowly neared Jon, as if it had all the time in the world, its prey standing right before it.

"How about you face me properly, Jon? Come on, turn around. It would be boring if the last thing you ever saw was a wall, wouldn't you agree?" It sang, and this time, the cold breath creeping against Jon's nape was not his imagination.

His whole body shook, and his breathing became so fast that his vision began to blur. This was... god, this wasn't good at all. Jon's thoughts were a jumbled mess, and it was so hard to focus. He was going to die, he was sure of it. How could he be so stupid? Of course he wouldn't be able to outrun that thing. If it wasn't for him breaking that table--

The table. He still had the axe with him, didn't he? Jon gripped the handle tighter into his fists, knuckles turning white. The whole point of getting it was to make that thing hurt, right?

Well, hopefully it'll actually serve its purpose.

Slowly, Jon turned around, having to crane his head to meet the gaze of the monster that stared back with a dangerous glint in its eyes.

The being that wasn't Sasha stared right at him as he looked straight into its fake, glassy eyes.

"Good." It says, with a satisfied tone, lifting its hand- no, not a hand; this was far too big and sharp to be called one- from the ground, raising it to Jon's eye level.

"Remember when I told you I'd make this quick earlier?" It cackles, with that voice that did not belong to it. "I'm afraid Good old Sasha lied!"

It's going to strike.

"You. Are. Not. HER!"

One quick swing, and Jon manages to axe the beast's right limb. The force sends it slamming against a nearby wall and the thing shrieks with multiple voices at once, stumbling back.

"You...YOU!!!" It had not expected Jon to still be able to inflict any sort of damage on its body.

Clutching its wound, it emits a furious roar, and Jon swears his eardrums are about to pop.

He just has enough time to turn around and start running again before the creature tries to catch him, and it trips on itself.

No matter how far away Jon was getting, screams of anguish still rattled off of the walls around him. It sent a chill down his spine, and as he spotted a fork in the catacombs, a screech of muddled voices startled him. "GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE RAT!" It yells out, and the sound of it getting back onto what Jon supposed could be feet made its way down the hall.

As far as he was concerned, remembering how to navigate his way back out of the tunnels was the least of his problems. So Jon ducks and weaves through halls of all sizes, hoping that he'll eventually become so lost that not even the monster at his heels would be able to find him.

Not!Sasha wants to hunt him down to the ends of the Earth.

But first it needed to get its arm back. It quickly grabbed it and pressed the area that was freshly cut against its shoulder and the porcelain colored flesh melted, fusing the missing piece against its body.

It clutched its limb and stretched out its claws, briefly studying itself to see if that puny human caused any further damage.

It seemed satisfied.

It quickly looked at the direction where Jon had fled and it screeched again, getting back on all fours and rushing out, leaving the dead end behind.

" JON! " It howled like a dying animal.

" I WILL FIND YOU AND I WILL DEVOUR YOUR ARM! THAT'S A PROMISE! "

It galloped through the halls, absolutely seething, scanning each nook and corners that could lead it to Jon's location.

" WHERE ARE YOU?! "

Its screams of rage had encouraged Jon to avoid staying in one place for too long. So he continues to let himself wander, some turns echoing the voice louder than others. He's not quite sure how long he's been running, but the aching in his legs is beginning to slow him down. "Come on, keep going...!" Jon grunts to himself as he tries to fight through the pain, but it's becoming apparent that he has to find somewhere to rest soon.

" Jooooonnnn.... " It hissed through gritted fangs, "If you show yourself now, maybe I won't tear you limb from limb. Come on, be a good friend and come out, won't you?" As the monster began to speak aloud again, Jon rounded a corner and pressed himself against the cold wall. Every bone within him shook, and it took everything in him to not slide down to the floor.

The creature snarled, still very much enraged by her previous wound. Even a monster of the Stranger can still feel pain, after all. And having to push its fake bones back into place wasn't exactly pleasant.

Seeing that Jon was still nowhere close to her, it halted for a brief instant. "Alright, I may have gotten a little bit angry earlier. But could you blame me? You literally cut my arm off! That's not a very nice thing to do to your friend, is it, Jon?"

Naturally, she knew this wasn't going to entice him to come to her. But it was fun to toy with him.

"You know," It says, "I wonder how your screams would sound like once I get you to the circus... Taking you apart pieces by pieces, to reshape you afterward… Kinda like Sasha, actually! Oh, you should have seen her! She did such a wonderful performance too, squirming under my claws.'' It chuckles, dragging on the last words of her sentence painfully. No matter how hard Jon tried to ignore the taunts of the beast, its words sank in deep. The second that it began to describe Sasha's body being torn apart and put together, he felt himself heave a bit. And yet they continued on, finding humor in how his dear friend suffered.

"She writhed and squirmed when I gave her new joints, too. Human bones are tough, that’s obvious, but they can always be upgraded to better material. No one would see the difference anyway! Especially not you, Jon."

It chuckled eerily.

"Oh, you should have heard her too! She kept on screaming at you and your acolytes' names, too! It was delightful to hear! Actually, why don't you listen to it yourself? You love to listen, don't you?" Jon's breathing began to pick up again until it became quick gasps of air. He did his best to get it under control, but then.

The sound Jon heard was the exact replica of Sasha's voice. He could hear the terror and the agonizing pain in her tone.

"Jon, Martin! Anyone! help, it-it hurts so much! Please, someone, get me out of here! Please! PLEASE, JON! HELP ME! "

It spoke like Sasha. The real Sasha. The begging and pleading that called out into the halls belonged to someone he couldn't recognize. But he knew without a doubt that it was her. "Oh, Christ... Sasha, s-she was--"

How long was she tormented? Ripped apart and reconstructed like some sort of sick puzzle?

" PLEASE, JON! HELP ME! "

"I-I'm so sorry, Sasha..!" Jon whimpered out, clamping a free hand to his mouth to stop a sob bubbling up his throat. The whole time, Sasha was alive, and they did nothing to help her.

The realization hit Jon with such an intensity that he collapsed down the wall with a pathetic thud. The axe followed shortly after, the metal clattering to the stone floor and ringing out beyond where the Archivist could see. He stiffened, eyes widening in horror and darting down to his weapon he had dropped on the floor.

Jon made a huge mistake.

The creature halted its grim imitation suddenly, turning its head sharply toward the direction of the noise she just heard.

Oh, that was too easy.

She did not need to look any longer, she knew exactly where her prey was now.

Not Sasha suddenly appeared right before him.

"There you are."

Jon barely had the time to get up and made another foolish attempt to flee. The monster had already seized his ankle with her inhumanly big, sharp hand, forcing the man to collide brutally against the hard floor beneath him. Jon gasped in pain at the force of the impact.

"Oh, no no, I’m not letting you go anywhere anytime soon!"

Jon uselessly thrashed and scraped his nails on the stone covered ground as Not Sasha simply dragged Jon back to her, flipping him unceremoniously on his back, so he could see her in her full glory, her entire body looming over him, caging him.

"No-- No, no no no--"

Jon's desperate pleas were cut off as the thing that wasn't his Sasha suddenly slammed her other hand against Jon's body, effectively pinning him down under its weight as its dangerous claws were big enough to cover and seize his body.

"Now… What am I going to do with you…?" It said, absolutely relishing the way Jon stared back at her with terrified eyes.

Oh, how much she loved to taste the fear of her prey. This was delightful.

"Hmm... I could do the same thing you did to me... But using that little axe of yours may make it too easy. I think cutting through you myself would be much more fun!" She spoke idly, biting back a laugh when their suggestion only caused the Archivist to squirm more.

"Oh, but I know how much you care about your old Sasha! Maybe taking you to see her one last time, broken and wrong would be more painful!" Jon managed to wriggle an arm out from its grasp, and attempted to punch their long fingers.

It didn't even phase them. "And if you're good, Jon," Not Sasha's face leered down to meet his own, her sharp grin reflecting in the glasses that framed Jon's panicked eyes.

"Maybe I'll tear you apart just like how I did her."

Jon felt his breath snag in his lungs. If being torn apart would be his reward for being "good" Then what would it be if he tried to actually fight back? Probably something worse than death itself.

He wasn't about to find out.

"Just- please, just let me go, I don't-"

"Ah, ah, ah! I didn't chase you through these tunnels all this time just to let you run again, you silly. No, no, I exactly know what I'm going to do with you."

Not Sasha grabbed Jon's wrist between the edge of its claws, observing it.

"Such a frail little limb. Wonder how long it'll take to break."

"Wait--"

Before Jon could utter another useless plea, the monster unhinged its jaws,and violently sank her teeth into his right shoulder, mirroring the damage that Jon did to her just before. The second her horribly sharp teeth punctured into his skin, Jon began to spiral into hysterics. His instincts told him to do something, anything, but the pain clouded his mind to the point where he wasn't able to focus on anything else. Jon screamed.

Not Sasha pulled and pulled on his arm, and a sickening squelch could be heard as her fangs kept digging deeper and deeper inside his shoulder.

As soon as he felt his shoulder about to give out under that thing's fangs, she suddenly released him, pulling her head back to reveal her freshly bloodstained face. It casually wiped the blood that dribbled down its chin, eyeing its work.

"...Actually, I just remembered that Nikola doesn't really like being handed broken playthings. I guess you get to keep your arm this time. Lucky you! ...But then again, I could always replace your arm with something different. I wonder if Nikola would mind… Hmmm."

She tapped her chin, seeming to seriously ponder that option.

“Oh, I sure hope she won't be mad at me for damaging you a bit.”

She looked almost worried, but more for the fact that she could get in trouble for harming Jon rather than being concerned about his well being.

The Not Them had briefly released Jon, as she was too busy trying to shred his shoulder into bits previously. The Archivist stumbled backwards in hopes of gaining some distance between them. But it took nothing more than a tug at his ankle to drag him back.

Hm, she must have tired him out. Good.

"Well, I suppose I'll just have to wait until I hear back from Nikola. In that case," Not Sasha grabbed hold of Jon's torso with one of its large disfigured hands, gripping tightly.

She hummed in satisfaction when she was able to feel the Archivist's heart hammering against her palm.

"It seems like you'll be coming with me." It squeezed him a bit tighter, chuckling as Jon screwed his eyes shut in agony. "N- no! I'll never- AH-!"

A claw prodded in one of the gory punctures on his arm. "Now, now. I was generous enough with letting you keep your arm... don't push it." They dug the finger in deeper to emphasize their point.

For the fun of it, Not Sasha left her claw in the wound, enjoying the sight of her prey writhing in pain. But soon enough, Jon tired himself out, slowly falling limp and shaking with exhaustion. "Someone, p-please...!" He begged. A last ditch effort on his behalf, Not Sasha was sure of it.

"Oh, come now, Jon, no one can hear you. I thought you knew that these tunnels keep things rather well hidden. If none of your friends were able to hear your screams, what makes you think they'll hear your pathetic whimpering?"

He went quiet at that.

"Good. Now, shall we go?"

"Martin, Tim, please...." Jon mumbled to himself, feeling himself close to passing out from the pain.

"I'll take that as a yes." ———————————————- Please let us know if you enjoyed that fic so we can be motivated to write more ❤️

[softsatxn]

The Next Chapter

i've been watching a lot of “telling my partner i'm pregnant” vids on youtube and this is the result. /// Izuku woke up to his mate nuzzling against the back of his neck. Katsuki wrapped his arms tighter around the Omega and nuzzled his nose against Izuku’s scent gland.

“G' morning,” Izuku said sleepily.

“You smell different,”

Izuku laughed off the strange comment. He acted like he wasn't expecting Bakugou to say something eventually about the change in his scent.

“Bad different?” He asked. He just had to play it cool. Kacchan has mentioned it before, said how his scent was sweeter that day, but just barely, and Midoriya thought he handled the whole situation well. Deku knew it would be too hard to hide forever and he had to tell him soon. He just didn't really know how.

“No,” Katsuki mumbled, still sniffing at his scent gland. “You smell like you, but just sweeter, and it’s stronger,”

“Maybe an early heat?” Izuku threw out there, trying to make sure Kacchan didn’t figure out the real reason. Izuku knew it wasn’t an early heat. He can promise that.

“Hm, I don’t know, it’s not your preheat smell,” Katsuki kissed the back of Izuku’s neck before haphazardly scenting him. “All I know is everyone else better keep their hands to themselves because you smell fucking great,”

Izuku laughed at the Alpha’s protective behavior, waiting a few more moments while Katuski scented him, before turning around so he could be eye-to-eye with his mate. He greeted the Alpha with a smile, to which the blond returned.

Katsuki leant forward and kissed Izuku. It was short and sweet. “You have morning breath,” Izuku teased once they broke away, but that didn’t stop him from kissing the blond again.

“Yeah, well so do you,” Katsuki said once they broke apart from the kiss. Izuku laughed before rolling out of bed.

“Nooooooo,” Katsuki whined. “Where are you going?” His arms that were previously wrapped around Izuku’s waist now laid limply on both sides of him dramatically.

“To brush my teeth,” Izuku called out as he walked into their bathroom. It was a few moments of Katsuki staring at the ceiling huffing to himself that his Omega had decided to leave him, cold and alone in their bed, before said Omega called out again. “And I recommend you do to, because no kisses until you do,”

“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

“Yes!” Izuku said, Katsuki could hear the water run for a short amount of time. “But you love me,” He said, this time his voice was muffled by the toothbrush.

“You’re not wrong,” Katsuki mumbled so quietly Deku could hardly hear it. He begrudgingly rolled out of bed and joined Deku, aggressively grabbing his toothbrush and applying the toothpaste, before running it under the water.

Deku was somehow all smiles this early in the morning. Katsuki on the other hand was still pretty tired. He always enjoyed coffee in the mornings, to give him that sort of boost. He rested his chin on Deku’s shoulder and wrapped one arm around the other’s waist as they stared in the mirror, brushing their teeth.

Deku placed his hand over Katsuki’s, resting them both over his stomach. Katsuki wasn’t exactly suspicious of this action. However, it did make him think that Izuku could actually be  entering an early heat, like the Omega had mentioned earlier. Usually when Omega’s, including Deku, were going into heat their heads got filled up with pregnancy and babies, and that’s probably what Deku was doing right now, thinking about babies.

Their babies.

Babies they’d have together one day.

The idea made Katsuki smile. Deku leaned over to spit, but Katsuki kept his hand on Izuku’s stomach. It wasn’t some weird thing. Izuku’s scent, and the maybe-early heat brought this on. It wasn’t the first time their heads got clouded with baby-thoughts, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

Katsuki leaned over Deku’s shoulder to spit out the toothpaste in his mouth. “Oi, you could’ve ‘pit on me,” Deku said, his speech a little unclear due to the foam and toothbrush in his mouth.

“But I didn’t,” Katsuki said, putting his toothbrush back in his mouth and continuing to brush his teeth, murdering all the germs. He was already waking up a bit more. Once he was going, he could go (even without coffee, but the drink was preferred). However, the getting up and going part was always the hardest part.

“Bu’ I didn’t,” Izuku mocked just before spitting into the sink. He looked up at Kacchan, smiling and Katsuki smiled back, only after rolling his eyes.

After they had finished brushing their teeth, Katsuki had went to make coffee, which Izuku was going to have to pass up. Ever since finding out, he decided to cut caffeine out of his life. His mate called him stupid whenever he rejected the drink, but it was never actually meant hostilely.

“You sure you don't want any?” Katsuki called out from the kitchen as Izuku made their bed.

“I'm sure, thanks though,” Izuku called back, tossing the final pillow back on their bed were it belonged.

“Next you're going to stop eating ice cream or something,”

“I'll never not eat ice cream,” Izuku laughed.

“You used to say that about coffee,”

“It's not just coffee, Kacchan, it's caffeine,” Deku clarified, walking into the kitchen and leaning against the island.

“God, next you're going to go vegan,”

“Veganism isn't a bad thing,”

Katsuki turned over his shoulder and looked back at Izuku. “Please do not go /Vegan/, it'll be way too hard to feed you,”

Izuku just laughed Kacchan off. He drummed his thumbs against the marble countertop. He didn't know how he was going to tell him.

It was important for Kacchan to know; sooner rather than later. Soon, Izuku would be showing. His stomach would slowly start softening, and he knew Katsuki would notice. It's not like he was scared, okay, he was a little. However, he knew Kacchan wouldn't just up and leave. They'd stay together and raise their child together.

They'd be a family, but when you're a pro-hero, having a family can be dangerous. Villains will use that to their advantage.

Izuku was about to just blurb it out right there. Just tell Kacchan the news. However, a quick moment of hesitation had decided what Deku was going to do, because three seconds later, Katsuki’s phone went off.

“Shit,” Katsuki mumbled. Today was their day off, and they were both very excited about their days off aligning, however, their agency didn't just call for no reason, and Izuku knew Katsuki would probably have to go.

In a matter of twenty minutes, Katsuki has gotten dressed, and made his way out the door. “Love you, bye,” He said as he kissed Deku on his lips.

“Love you, be safe,”

“I’ll try,” He said. And Deku has wished that he could do more than ‘I’ll try,’ but he knew he couldn't. In a field like this, all you can do is try.

When the door shut, Izuku just stared at it for a moment. He kind of didn't know what to do now. It wasn't the first time this had happened or anything, sometimes Kacchan had to leave Deku in a hurry, and other times Izuku would have to leave the blond.

Just something about this time… he didn't know what to do afterwards… so he stared at the door. Wasn't the most logical thing, but you can't always control things like that. Sometimes your brain just did things. Izuku couldn’t explain it.

He walked back into the main bathroom, where they had been brushing their teeth half an hour ago. He opened the cabinet below the sink and reached his hand around, looking for a very particular item he had hidden a few days ago when he first suspected he would be pregnant.

He found the pink box with four pregnancy tests inside, one was already used, and he pulled that one out. He examined the two pink lines, indicating that he was pregnant. He decided he was going to take another one and make sure he was pregnant- so he did just that. He put the first one back in the box, because he didn’t exactly want to throw it away yet- he would because keeping it in that box for too long might be weird, but just not yet.

He grabbed another test and took it, waiting for the five minutes required before looking at it, finding the two lines, stronger than they were a few days ago when he took the first test. He was really pregnant- this time he was almost positive it wasn’t just a false positive. He and Katsuki were going to have a baby.

He had known this, but not for sure. He just had a good feeling, and he had a feeling the first test wasn’t a false positive, but you could never be too sure. Now knowing that the chances of him not being pregnant were slim to none, he thought of better ways to tell Kacchan. Might as well make it special…

He grabbed both the tests and walked out of their bathroom and into their room. He scoped the area for a place he could put them where Katsuki would look. He thought about their draws, and then the closet, even thought about hiding the tests in plain sight, but he didn’t think any of those were good enough.

He knew he was probably overthinking it, but he just wanting it to be special… maybe in the kitchen somewhere? When he gets home he will most likely want to eat something- but if he grabbed takeout or something that wouldn’t really work.

He could set up a lame scavenger hunt, but that was lame.

If he had more time he would go out a buy a world’s best dad shirt, but there was no telling when Kacchan would get home.

… Then it hit him. Almost every night they would drink some form of tea before bed (God, they sounded old)... but nonetheless, to make tea you need cups. A genius idea hit him as he quickly ran to go get dressed, he hoped the store that was around the corner would have what he needed.

As fast as he could he ran down to the store, going straight to this mug section. He frantically searched for any mug resembling what he had in his mind. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find one. He didn’t want to waste time looking, so he thought about the closest baby-stuff store to his house… It was a few miles away, but he was confident he may be able to make it in time, but he may be cutting it close.

Once he arrived at the baby-store, he got a call from his Alpha. “Shit,” Izuku mumbled, trying to think of a small lie to save the surprise. He answered the phone. “Hey ‘zuku,” Kacchan said as soon as the omega had answered.

“Hey, Kacchan,” Izuku said, walking into the store. There was no point in not getting a move on, Katsuki was gonna know he was out, he just couldn’t, under any circumstances figure out where.

“I just wanted to call you and say I’m heading home, just need to swing into my office and grab some things,” He said through the phone. Izuku could hear the elevator ding.

“Good, I’ve been bored without you,” Izuku smiled, even though he knew his Kacchan wouldn’t be able to see it, but the smile formed nonetheless. “I ran to go grab more icecream, beccause we ran out, want me grab something for dinner as well? Or do oyu just wanna cook something,”

“I can assure I was more bored- we didn’t even do hero stuff, just monitored a buch of shit, but I’ll yack your ear off about it later,” Katuski began.

“I’ll be waiting,” Midoriya laughed.

“But as for dinner, where are you around? Don’t want you driving around the city to get something,”

“Near the store around the corner,” Wasn’t really a lie, he just knew Kacchan would think about the first store he went to, not the outdoor mall a few more miles away from that.

“Hmm, what about Katsudon, from that one resturant, what’s it called?”

“Beats me, we always just call it the Katsudon Place,” Izuku laughs. “But that sounds good,”

“Okay, babe, I’ll see you when I get home, or when you do, whoever gets there first I guess,”

“Okay, I love you, Kacchan,”

Bakugou laughed- more like gave an amused chuckle. “Love you, too, ‘Zuku,” And with that the two hung up. Izuku had made it into the store and searched for what he could, as fast as he could. First he found more than what he wanted, a cute onsie saying “I love my daddy” so of course he had to grab that. Then he found a cute little lion stuffed animal that made a rattling noise when you shake it, and once again, he couldn’t resist himself.

Now he looked started really searching for what he came for, a cup that said something along the lines of ‘HEY YOU’RE A DAD’ however, mugs are a hard thing to find in a baby store, but he eventually found them. He fell in love with the mug that said: ‘Best Dad in Training’

He checked his items out and went to rush over to the Katsudon place to buy their dinner- oh and to buy the icecream he said he was gonna get. He should have thought of a slightly better lie that required less running around.

When Izuku finally got home, Kacchan’s car was already there. Izuku carried in the ice cream bag, and put the baby-stuff bag inside of that one. They used the reusable ones, so transparency wasn’t the issue, but maybe Kacchan would really want some ice cream in that exact moment, Izuku just had to hope for the best.

He knocked on the door before unlocking it. Kacchan was sitting on the couch, he clearly had already slid back into the pajamas he was wearing this morning, practically resuming where they had left off. However as soon as Katsuki saw Izuku’s face, he got up off the couch and hugged him. “I missed you,”

“I missed you, too,” Izuku said basically melting into Kacchan’s hug, taking in the Alpha’s scent. “Stupid work,”

Katsuki laughed. “Do not get me started,” He kissed Izuku’s head before separating. “Let me get these for you,”

Izuku shoved the takeout bag into his hand, hoping he wouldn’t continue to pry for the other one. “Thank you,” Izuku said, leaving him with the katsudon, as he walked into the kitchen to put up the ice cream. He then took the bag into his and Kacchans room and carefully put it in the closet, then changed into his pajama pants and top. Walking back out, he opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out chopsticks. “So, tell me about this day you’ve had,” he said bringing the utensils to Kacchan as he sat down next to him on the couch, pulling a blanket over him, then taking his meal from his Alpha.

“So, they call me in, on my day off, so obviously I think it’s important, right?” He says, beginning to eat. “But once I get in there, they essentially put me on an honorary guard dog position, I just sit there and watch their official cameras, in this official room, with an uncomfortable chair, and literally it was just me, and then it turns out, the guy they were so scared was sneaking around ready to bomb us or something, was literally just some random tourist who was lost,”

“Ew,”

“EW is very right, pissed me off, not going to lie,” He took a second to take another bite of his food. “Oh, and then when I’m leaving, not have done any actual hero work all day, boss comes by and pats me on my fucking shoulder and says: ‘thanks for coming in, couldn’t have done it without you,’ and I’m sitting there like ‘Actually, bitch, you could’ve, but whatever, I wasn’t gonna say anything, I just nodded and then called you,”

Izuku finished chewing his food before speaking. “That’s dumb, why didn’t they get some random intern to do it, back in our internship days that would’ve been extremely cool, he acts like you haven’t been working with him for years,”

Kacchan nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying!” He took a deep breath, “I think I’m done talking about it now, what’d you do today?”

‘Oh y’know, panicked about telling you about our unborn child’ “I just cleaned around a bit, watched TV, then realized I wanted ice cream, realized we didn’t have the kind I wanted, and went to get it, not much else to say,”

The two ate, and once they were done, snuggled close to each other while watching TV. About an hour later though, Katsuki excused himself to go take a shower, and Izuku knew this was when he should do it. As soon as he heard the water running he ran to grab his stuff so he could set it up. He grabbed the two tests. (Which he left in the bathroom, so he pretended he was grabbing the shirt he needed to be washed by tomorrow)

Once he had everything, he made sure the test caps were on tight, and he placed them on the counter. He then opened the mug cabinet, and placed the new mug in it. He then stuffed the toy lion in it, followed by setting the onesie next to it, the tests then going on the onesie.

Everything was now in place. He went and sat back on the couch, getting more nervous by the second. He continued watching TV, so when Kacchan walked back out, nothing would look suspicious.

However, once the water shut off, he knew in only moments, Kacchan would know, and that was so crazy to him. He just stared at the TV, trying to process his thoughts before his Alpha walked out and he had to act calm so he didn’t spoil the surprise.

It was about five minutes when a wet-haired Katsuki walked out of their room and didn’t even sit down on the couch before asking if Izuku wanted tea. Izuku said he would, and then Katuski turned on the kettle. While the blond waited for the water to boil, he sat down next to Izuku and motioned for the omega to come closer to him. Izuku had no problem complying, and went to lay on top of him.

Bakugou ran his fingers up and down Izuku’s back. They sat their in a comfortable silence while the water boiled. They just sat, enjoying each other's company. Sometimes that’s all people needed- was to feel the presence of someone they loved, rather they spoke or not.

However, as soon as the kettle began ringing, Kacchan gave Midoriya a kiss, and slowly sat them up. “What kind of tea do you want?”

“Any kind,” He said, cuddling back up to his blanket. Oh god, Izuku was so nervous.

“Easy enough,” Katsuki mumbled. He went to the pantry and grabbed their tea first, set it on the counter, then went to grab the mugs. As soon as he opened the cabinet, he froze. “Wha? What’s-”

Izuku shifted nervously on the couch. Katsuki turned to face the omega, he had the little stuffed rattle in his hand. “Are you? You’re?”

All Izuku could do is nod.

“Oh, my God,” Kacchan put the toy down and ran up to his Omega, engulfing him in a hug. “This isn’t some prank, like you’re actually pregnant?”

“Why would I lie about something like this?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Katsuki said, holding the smaller male tight. “We’re gonna have a little person walking around,”

“We are,” Izuku said, wrapping his hands around the alpha’s waist.

“This is so amazing, Izuku,” He said, kissing the top of the omega’s head. “You’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me,” He said, planting a kiss on His Omega’s lips.

They were ready to begin the next chapter of their lives together.