#Or staring out over the waves in a peaceful quiet after a long and arduous day--simply thankful for each other's company

[saltpepperbeard]

#i love this moment#the long look ed gives stede before he realizes ed is serious#the way stede doesnt believe the famous blackbeard would want to teach him anything#then realizes he absolutely does#the woah he says after is so real#he sounds like a teenage boy who was just told he's been taken apprentice by a famous rock star or something#the way they slept up there together and stede basically brought him breakfast in bed#the way they bonded over high seas high jinks and a tase of something sweet after#i feel like I could see their future in this scene#a lifetime of pirate escapades ending in adrenaline and sweat and pulling each others clothes off as they#stumble into their barracks kissing the blood and sweat off each others bodies#kissing into the night until they fall asleep in each others arms under the moonlight streaming in through the windows curtains forgotten#waking up in each others arms groaning because the sun is too bright then getting a tea and marmalade#ofmd#our flag means death#ed x stede#edward teach#stede bonnet#i love them ur honor

(via @thelighthouseandthekraken )

you know which moment i feel like we don't talk about enough?

THIS ONE RIGHT HERE.

The goofy choked laugh Stede does, the way Ed giggles back, the affectionate shoulder pat, the way they both smile so brightly, the way it feels SO comfortable and so casual and so warm even though they've only know each other for a short amount of time...

And the way it makes me that much more excited for all their little private, sweet, and silly moments awaiting us.

[kiljoytrout]

Oath of the Cherry Orchard

Based off this illustration by Emily Amiao as well as some details from her animatic The Other Side (check it out on her yt emilyamiao)

Summary: The rebels have won. Now all that's left for Yun on his long list of plans is for him and Elias to sign the sacred oath of the cherry orchard and formally end the war. But when mysterious characters cause familiar screams and snow bleeds red under the cherry trees, it's up to Yun to make some difficult decisions

Word Count: 3.3K

The cherry trees had been dusted in the fine sugar snow of late winter, but now they were covered in the sweet red syrup of fresh blood.

Pointing a gun at the head of his father, who in turn was ready to blow the brains out of the last prince of the Everstied royal family, Yun couldn’t figure out where everything had gone wrong. The subterfuge, the turmoil, he had thought it was all over. The crumbling remains of the Anwei Democratic Party and the prevailing rebels had come to the sacred cherry orchard, the place where Anwei was first woven together, in order to make an oath of peace, to stop the bloodshed that had torn the nation at its seams. Yun had known the possibility of treachery, expected it even, but not even his meticulous planning and preparation prepared him for what had occurred.

Elias had always been slightly apprehensive about the oath.

“ You’re certain the orchard is secure?”, he had asked earlier, for what was likely the hundredth time since the ceasefire.

“ For the last time, it is!”, groaned Yun, tossing a hair ribbon to Elias before taking a glance back at his uniformed self in the mirror.

It was indeed, for Yun had thought of absolutely everything: sniper in the peach grove, weapons check at the old Capitol entrance, dubious area patrol dismissed. Yun was an expert in pointing out the fatal chinks in his opponent’s armor, the weak spot that guaranteed victory, and there was nothing of the sort in his own. Or so he had thought.

When they had arrived at the cherry orchard, the diplomats from the ADP weren’t there yet. Elias raised his eyebrows at this, but Yun shrugged it off. Unlike Elias, he wasn’t used to people being at his beck and call; at any rate the delay gave him time to strategize terms for the closing treaty, which traditionally occurred after the ceremonial peace oath. Elias started squinting at the distance, shaking his head slightly to himself, before looking again at absolutely nothing. After about thirty seconds of this, Yun started to get irritated.

“Cool it, Elias. The trains from the old Capitol are practically snails with windows, it's no wonder they’re late.”

“ There they are, coming through the peach grove”, Elias responded, pointing to where Yun could now barely see the shadowy bulks of three figures walking through the garden towards them.

The two of them with thuggish bodyguard builds were lugging the sacred scrolls needed for the oath towards them. The man in the middle was taller, with an imposing stature that clearly defined him as the person who people would bow down to and the person who expected it. Yet, he had a cold crookedness to his features that was strikingly familiar. Elias blinked, rubbing his eyes before voicing what Yun had already figured out.

“ That’s-”

“Yes”

Yun knew that he couldn’t harm him, that the old Capitol had been purged of weapons and that the sniper were waiting at the only other entrance in the garden to institute peace by any means necessary. But even if every rifle in Anwei was at his disposal, he didn’t think he’d ever feel completely safe from him, the man who now faced them, sacred scrolls in hand.

“Son”

“ Father”

Both spat the words with so much venom that a string of obscenities would have been a more welcoming greeting. After a few seconds of tense staring (which took Elias jamming his riding boot into Yun’s shoddy shoe to dispel), his father sighed and looked up at the cherry trees, sweet red drops sprinkled with snow.

“Now that your insurrectionists are done tearing up the country it's about time to institute some peace.”

Yun snorted. Only his father could make the rebel’s historic takeover sound like a victory for the ADP.

“ How was your trip?”, asked Elias, his tone dripping with the polite contempt required by his princely position.

“ Rather taxing, but I’m sure it was necessary”

“I take it you didn’t appreciate the weapon screenings?”

The two guards knit their eyebrows in confusion at this, but Yun’s father took it in stride.

“ Seemed rather out of place for a diplomatic meeting, but then again my son has always liked his smoke and mirrors. Shall we get on to business?” he said.

“Sure.” 

Yun stepped forward, shaking snow off the shoulders of his navy jacket. He extended his frostbitten hand, not trembling a bit in the bitter cold because it was all finally over; his struggles with his father, the arduous battles to take back Anwei, they were all as hollow as cherry trees in the dead of winter. His father’s sneer twisted itself into a satisfied smile as he reached out his hand-

“Yun.”

Yun glanced sideways, but Elias wasn’t there anymore. Instead he was moving closer to the ADP guards, fingers fluttering at the edge of his now empty sword sheath like they always did when he was about to fight.

“Yes?”

Gaze never breaking away from the ADP, Elias continued “ What direction is the old Capitol entrance to the orchard?”

“ East”

“And where did our friends here just enter the orchard from?”

“From the Peach Grove in the -”

Yun stopped short.

“West.”

They had been tricked. No wonder the guards had looked so confused about the screenings, somehow they had bypassed them entirely. But what about the snipers in the Peach Grove and the Pear Garden? Wouldn’t they have sent a message that the ADP was sneaking in another way? Then Yun saw the barely discernible muzzle of a blackmarket gun poking out from between the holy scrolls, and he knew what had happened. For a single moment, nobody spoke, instead flaying each other's eyes, for any remaining sense of humanity, dignity, and civil peace to stop what was inevitable.

The guard on the left reached for the scroll. Whether it was to grab the gun or to pass the oath, Yun would never know, because Elias reached into his elaborate hairdo, whipped out three silver bladed throwing stars, each with the ornate gold accents of the Eversteid crest, and sent the first one ripping straight through the guard’s throat. Any other time Yun would have balked at the failure of his no-weapons plan on two levels, but sudden death appeared to be the ultimate catalyst to snapping out of it.

The resulting scuffle happened so fast that Yun could barely keep track of what he was doing let alone everyone else. The second guard had stooped to the ground in a futile effort to revive his cohort while Yun’s father rushed Elias, who was now swinging five throwing stars at an arm's length. Just when Yun absorbed what had happened, the second guard, thirsty for vengeance of any kind, picked up the gun that had spilled out of the scrolls and aimed it right at him. Yun dove out of the way, just as the first bullet whistled over his head, with a silencer so quiet, he could have missed the sound of gunfire in the falling snow. He scurried over to where a second gun had fallen from the scrolls, feeling it's cold metallic barrel freeze his fingertips, before hastily emerging from the underbrush to confront the second guard.

But the second guard and Yun’s father were several feet away, next to the struggling form of Elias, who the guard had tackled to the ground. His long lavender hair was fanned out behind him, and his treasure trove of throwing stars had been tossed into the snow.

“That one certainly gave us some trouble”, said Yun’s father as he plucked a late cherry off of a tree, the red juice running down his chin as he bit it.

“ That’s for sure. What about the other one?” the second guard replied, binding Elias’s hands with rope, as the latter yelled obscenities muffled by the heel of the guard’s boot.

“My good for nothing son is probably hiding like a coward in one of the other orchards. We’ll find him soon enough”

“Those traitors better pay for what they did to Kierek”, the second guard said, nodding towards the corpse of the first guard, Eversteid throwing star still in his throat.

“ We can take care of this one soon, and my son will be captured and sentenced once we reinstitute order”

“The orders were to kill them bo-”

“I said he will be captured. Do you understand?”

The second guard nodded, noting the violent gleam in his boss’s eyes.

“ But this one has no other use. The royals are too pigheaded to ever give up any information and we don’t have the time for a public execution.” said Yun’s father, spitting out the cherry pit.

“Dispose of him,”

The guard raised the gun to Elias’s head; Yun burst from the bushes and sprinted as fast as he could. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears, his stomach in his chest, he was going so fast that the snow fall had become an endless tunnel of white, with Elias at its center. The guard had no chance. Yun plowed through him like a meteor, driving him straight into the snow bank and knocking the gun out of his hands. Yun turned around to free Elias, but standing in his way was the crooked man who had made his life a series of slanting scowls and stolen smiles.

“Don’t you dare”,

his father snarled, the third gun cocked at his side, and his foot on a gasping Elias, who he had given a brutal kick in the ribs.

“Let him go!”

Yun had meant to sound intimidating but in the icy cold his voice thinned out to little more than a squeak, prompting a smirk from his father.

“Such big talk from a greasy little nobody. Just stand around waving that toy some more and we can wait until Roklin comes out of the snowbank and captures you.“

His father was where Yun got his ability to spot weak spots. And Yun’s father had always known exactly where his son’s were.

“We both know you’re really not going to do anything. Even when you were little you were always loudmouth with no spine, crying for mommy, so why don’t you-”

While Yun’s weak spots may have been the same as when he was younger, his temper was twice as short. He rushed his father, blood pounding in his ears, but stumbled on a stray root before faceplanting right back onto the snowy ground. He heard the crack before he felt the pain pumping through his broken nose. The brackish tears came instantly as did his father’s wolfish laughter, hoarsely echoing dead wood.

Amidst the relentless pounding in his head and nose, Yun’s foot kicked aside the stray root that had caused his bloody humiliation. A rather metallic stray root. Yun jolted up, reeling as he snatched Roklin’s half buried pistol from the snow and pointed it straight at his father.

“You wouldn’t have the guts,” scoffed his father, aiming his own firearm at the temple of a wheezing Elias.

Click. Yun cocked the gun.

A moment of silence. The cold wind whipped Yun’s bloody, tearstained face; snowflakes melted in his loose, dark hair; his earring, a miniature rebel flag, waved back and forth in the bitter breeze. He couldn’t be that boy, could he? The one holding a gun to his father? The one who had to make a shot that would haunt him for the rest of his days? No. In that moment Yun was nothing but a cherry tree: frosted with snow, watered with blood, and staunchly rooted in a history that would never be chopped down.

“I wish I didn’t have to do this”

Right as he pulled the trigger, a steel wall slammed into him. Smothered under the heavy armor of the second guard, who had managed to pull himself up from the snowbank, Yun extricated himself just in time to hear the dull thud of a bullet meeting flesh. But the low canine howl that Yun had steeled himself for never came. Instead, a sharp, shocked cry, that could only come from one person.

When he was five, Yun and his friends were running around in the grass, when one of them fell and cut their knee on a jagged rock. The world seemed to separate into colors at that moment : the treacherous gray of the rock, an eggshell pale face of shock, and of course, the crimson that had stained the grass below their feet. The injured child was quickly escorted back home by their guardian, where their sobs were staunched with a piece of candy. But Yun couldn’t stop crying. He had felt no physical pain, his skin was intact, his blood was unspilt, but he had seen all of that and more in his friend’s eyes, the fire, the horror, of being at one moment whole and the next moment not, that Yun had felt it more acutely then if the wound were his own. If that was bad, then seeing Elias, prostrate on the snowy ground of the cherry orchard, a red sea flowing out of the gorey hole in his shin, was a thousand times worse.

Spooked, his father lunged aside, just in time to collide with the second guard, who charged past him through the orchard with seemingly endless adrenaline, his icy obligation to his commander melting away to wet fear.

“ Elias!” screamed Yun, running over to him, ripping off his own uniform jacket and wrapping it around Elias’s leg in a desperate attempt to staunch the gushing blood that poured forth like the pulsing rivers of Anwei. Elias’s face had the same shock as the boy from Yun’s childhood, but so much paler, and with every second he resembled more and more a sculpture made from the snow he was dying on. “Hold on hold on hold on” Yun hiccuped, tying the makeshift tourniquet as tight as he could. Tears blurred his vision, but in the periphery he saw a crooked man gathering the torn scrolls of peace from the ground.

The sight made Yun forget all about Elias and he dropped the tourniquet, concentrating all of his drained energy into raising his blood splattered pistol at the back of his fleeing father. Before he could pull the trigger, his target turned around, but instead of booking it out of the orchard, raised his arms in a scorching surrender.

C’mon just do it, just do it, just do it, Yun thought, Prove him wrong just this once. But his steely self commands froze at his finger, which remained entrenched at the top of the trigger, refusing to push down. Amidst his rancid rage, exhausted adrenaline, and salty tears, he knew one glimmering truth. If Yun pulled that trigger, the last remains of his energy would be spent, and he would collapse into the snow next to a wounded Elias. They would die, they would disappear under the earth, and they would be cherry trees half dead in winter, embracing branches, bleeding fruit, screaming snow.

But Yun always had a plan, and even when he didn’t, the end goal was always the same.

Elias.

Yun would never give him up, even as acid burned through his veins when he pried his frostbitten fingers from the bloody pistol and dropped it into the snowbank, even when his father slinked off through the peach garden with an unreadable expression on his crooked, familiar face, even when he realized how far away the orchard gates were and how he had ordered the night patrol to stay away for his goddamn security measures; no matter how beautiful it was, the cherry orchard would never take Elias as long as Yun could still trick his paper form into the softest pulse of life.

Slippery warm blood, bone breaking cold, rotten raw heart; that was all he could remember for weeks afterward. Mia, Elias’s little sister, and her girlfriend Celine visited him at the hospital everyday, trying to coax him into revealing how a simple peace oath led to all of this. They told him that he was a hero, that he had half-carried, half-dragged Elias past the orchard gates, that a little girl had found them collapsed near her swing set, more dead than alive. But the only question he ever wanted an answer to was always met with avoided glances, shaking heads, and uncertain words. Lost a lot of blood, infected wound, critical condition.

But after a lot of begging, bribing, and borderline blackmailing, Yun was finally allowed a brief visit. The doctor took him down an endless fluorescent corridor, stopping in front of a room with a rusty sign reading Post Operation.

“Only ten minutes!” chirped the nurse as she opened the creaking door, and bolted away, green tea pipe in hand for a smoke break.

Yun crashed into the room, but stopped short when he saw Elias, wrapped in a thin blanket on a too small cot, where he could see a single sock-covered foot hanging off the end. The patient, on seeing him, gave a slight smile, and tried to raise himself up to sitting position.

“Let me” said Yun, walking over to the bed, fluffing and stacking the pillows for a head rest as he observed the tinctures and bandages littering the dinky nightstand.

Among them was a pamphlet emblazoned in cheerful yellow with: Adjusting to Your Amputation. Yun snapped his head back towards Elias, who averted his gaze towards the end of the bed. Without asking for permission, Yun yanked the blanket off the cot, exposing next to a bandaged and blistered leg, a stitched up stump connected to a polished wooden crutch.

“ They’re putting a more refined one in next week. I’ll need to use a wheelchair at first, but after some time I can adjust to a cane.”

The guilt took a second to set in, but when it did, Yun wanted to submerge himself in the oiliest, blackest sea and never come out.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,”

“Why are you crying? I’m the one with the botched leg,” said Elias, the amused tilt to his statement falling flat when he saw Yun’s crushed expression.

“Oh my god, this is my fault, I can’t believe I shot you, I should have aimed better, I should have shot him faster, oh my god, oh my-”

“Hey, HEY!”, said Elias, grabbing Yun’s flailing hands with the reflexes of an ace swordsman.

“Look at me. Look at me. You got me out of there. It’s like I used to tell my sister whenever she messed up at something: whatever mistakes made back there are dead, but you aren’t. It's going to be an uphill battle from here and I need you supporting me, not blaming yourself.”

Yun nodded.

“Okay?”

“Okay”

“Now come over here and tell me about the new siege on the Old Capitol. But first close the door. If that horrid nurse comes back here stinking of burnt tea again, I’m breaking out my sword, prosthetic or not.”

At this, Yun’s tears finally dried into loud snickering; Elias chimed in with some decidedly non-aristocratic chuckles. This continued until the nurse in question barged back into the room, smoke curling from her nostrils as she demanded they keep it down. Yun and Elias practically roared with laughter; a loving crack of relief as deadwood came back to life.

[darker-soft-starker]

 Starker High School AU, Pt. 4 (Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3, Pt.5)

---

The last bell of the day sounds and Peter doesn’t know if he’s thankful or reproachful.

On one hand, no more classes. 

On the other: giving up an afternoon of Robotics to spend time with the modern embodiment of the antichrist.

To add insult to injury, it had been one of those long, arduous days that never seemed to end. The hours stretched themselves into impossibly bloated milliseconds as he watched the clock - and it still wasn’t over.

Dread filled him in anticipation of the afternoon and before first period he accidentally smacked himself in the forehead trying to get his locker open. It hurt and he was sure it would bruise. But if he was looking for sympathy, there was none to be found. Bucky and Nat weren’t speaking and in result their friends seemed wary and divided amongst themselves. 

It made for a rather awkward day.

His efforts to be neutral ground and to bridge the gap were met with vexation and were brushed off, so he ate lunch alone again in the library Bucky and Nat were fiery and fiercely independent, so not unexpected, but it was in his nature to want to mend the rift.

Ben used to tell him not everything was up to Peter to fix.

Easy for him to say.

Nonetheless he does his best to keep that notion in mind as he goes through the day, but everything seems off kilter. No one is talking to each other, he was so busy and caught up with all of the internal discord and schoolwork that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. 

And May was acting super weird this morning. 

Worry gnawed at him in a way that had him forgetting about eating, whether it was about May and Thursday’s match, about the giant pimple that bloomed on his chin overnight -- or whatever inevitable torment that Stark had cooked up for them this afternoon.

It’s still a few minutes before they’re due to meet but Peter isn’t dragging his feet.

He isn’t. 

Sure, the hallways are vacant of any other students. 

And maybe he is feeling just a little petty for the time Tony kept him waiting despite his own plea not to -- besides, he still has a couple of minutes before he’s due, he’s not going to turn up early for goodness sake, as much as the part of him that says if you’re not early you’re late begs him to quicken his footsteps. 

Maybe he does stretch it to the last minute just to see Tony looking frustrated by his vintage ‘69 Mustang, the line of his mouth unmistakably displeased as the cars in the lot around him gradually disperse.

He knows the moment that Tony notices him, leant against his car, sunglasses slipping down his nose to properly glower at him. 

“This is why you’re an asshole,” Tony points a finger at him as he arrives. “I should leave you here.”

“Sorry,” Peter apologises airily, “I was trying to be anywhere but here. I’m not late though, so?”

Tony rounds the car to the drivers side, still pointing at Peter. “Don’t push your luck, Parker. Get in.”

Snickering quietly to himself, Peter heads to the other side. 

The engine growls loudly, a deep rumbling that goes through Peter’s entire body. Buckling himself in quickly, he peers around curiously while Tony reverses out of the lot. He’s reluctantly surprised. For an old car that belongs to a teenager behind at least two school fires it’s in impeccable condition. 

“Nice car,” he says quietly, mostly to himself as his gaze roams the interior with interest. 

It’s difficult to associate Tony Stark with the words nice or neat even, but that’s exactly what the car is. The interior is unscuffed, squeaky clean, the leather seats are comfortable, not a sprinkle of cigarette ash to be seen.

It really is spectacular - when the engine roars and the seats vibrate under him, Peter gets a sense of wonder and curiosity, like that one time he fell in love with DeLoreans after watching Back To The Future with Ben.

Curious, he opens the glove compartment and finds a generous stash of snacks and chocolate bars inside.

“Don’t touch anything,” Tony scowls, smacking Peter’s hands from the dash. “That’s rule number one. The interior is original and my girl is sensitive to your residue.”

Residue, he scoffs, tempted to reach out and touch more just to be contrarian.

“You got a sweet tooth or somethin’?” Peter asks instead, gesturing to the glove compartment. 

“No.”

“Can I have some?”

“No.”

“Are you gonna say anything else to me on this trip?”

“No,” Tony smiles sardonically, turning up the radio louder until the riffs of Queen’s Somebody To Love drown them both out.

True to his word, Tony remains silent over the course of the drive. It suits Peter fine, it’s not a quiet that is uncomfortable or awkward, not with the radio playing loudly from an oldies station, the wind whistling through the windows and the echoes of traffic around them. 

He thought it might be a stiff and uncomfortable drive, however the longer nothing goes unsaid between them, the more Peter feels himself relax in his chair, warmed by the heater and his limbs loosening until they feel boneless after the day he’s had.

And to his credit, Tony doesn’t appear overly tense or uneasy in having Peter in his space - in fact, he looks as chilled out as Peter has ever seen him. 

The perpetual strain around his jaw and shoulders seems eased, his posture open and casual as he drives with one hand, shifting gears with the other, sometimes tapping out a tune on the steering wheel. And whenever a song he particularly likes comes on the radio he turns up the volume, and if Peter looks over at the right moment he sees him smile privately to himself, a pleased little quirk of his lips.

Sometimes Tony speeds and puts his fingers out the window to card them through the wind, and his smile grows.

Although the amicable vibe has little to do with him, it’s probably the first time that they’ve spent more than five minutes together without hurling insults at each other. 

It’s weird.

Too wary of shattering the peace, Peter doesn’t mention it.

By the time they’re on the Queensboro Bridge the Eurythmics are playing one of May’s favorite songs. Without realising he’s doing it, he’s bobbing his head along to the tune, whispering the words under his breath, suddenly reminded of dancing in the kitchen with her and Ben, nine years old, using wooden spoons as microphones.

He’s smiling before he can stop himself, head tilted back against the seat, eyes unfocused on the skyline. It smells like Tony’s cologne and engine oil, like being enveloped in an old memory. He can see Tony looking at him from the corner of his eye but neither of them say anything.

The volume is turned up.

---

They arrive at the realtor with just minutes to spare before their appointment is due to commence. 

The traffic had built incrementally during the drive to Long Island City, the roads becoming more congested as they went. The tension in Tony’s shoulders returned as the minutes ticked closer to four-thirty, his tapping on the steering wheel out of impatience rather than good-cheer. 

Peter actually does feel a little bad now. 

Not that the five minutes he could’ve spared would have made much of a difference, but still, guilt whispers vehemently. 

It’s for that reason that he politely doesn’t say anything that could be perceived as inflammatory when Tony pockets his sunglasses and buttons up his dress shirt, checking his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Even if he’s dying to tell him that he looks like a damn nerd.

Not that he can talk. 

Heeding Tony’s words, he’d dressed similarly in his okay-est pair of jeans, a clean shirt and a cardigan. In class, MJ laughed and told him he looked like Napoleon Dynamite.

They head in, a bell above the door signalling their arrival. It’s a chain realtor, not the one they rent their apartment through, but Peter thinks there is an office right near his building. Inside, a middle-aged woman at the front desk greets them.

“Uh... we have an appointment with Kate Price” Tony gestures between them. “Appointment for Tony Stark?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman apologises in a heavily Welsh accent, “you should have gotten a notification, she’s unwell and taken the day off.” 

“Oh, um --”

“That’s okay though, I’m free, I can help you if you’d like.”

“Are you sure?” Peter queries, sharing a look with Tony who appears just as uncertain. “We’d really appreciate it.”

“Absolutely. It’s quiet anyhow. Come,” she beckons them down a narrow hallway to a set of cubicles and L-shaped desks. There doesn’t seem to be anybody else in the office, he notes, as the two are directed to sit before a desk while the woman types away at a computer. 

“I’m Miranda,” she introduces herself, holding out her hand for both of them to shake. “The appointment notes say you’re after a nearby rental?”

“Sort of, we’re just looking at some pricing. Nothing serious, we just need to take some notes, get a feel for it.”

Miranda’s glasses slide down her nose as she observes them.

“You’re a wee bit young to be moving out of home, aren’t you?”

“Oh! No,” Peter stutters, waving his hands, “we’re not actually --”

Miranda waves at him dismissively. 

“Not that I can judge. My husband and I were living together and married by nineteen, ‘course he’s dead now. We had a good run though. Anyway, good for you. Young love, it’s so sweet.”

“Young what,” Peter says.

Miranda, typing away cheerily at her computer, clearly didn’t get the memo about the school project like Kate must have.

Peter turns to Tony, who is just as wide-eyed as he is.

What the fuck, he mouths, slinking down in his chair.

I don’t know, Tony mouths back, stupefied.

“So, what are we thinking - a studio if it’s just the two of you? Something cozy?”

“Uh, well, we’re looking to grow,” Tony says, hand slapped over his mouth. He shares a bewildered, wide-eyed stare with Peter.

“Right, well, nothing wrong with knowing what you want. What’s the budget? Let me see what I can find for you.”

“Ah,” Peter shifts in his seat, trying to communicate wordlessly with Tony as their research angle quickly becomes derailed.

He tries to communicate the need for an urgent exit in a stare that he hopes is prolonged and meaningful, but is only met with equally panicked blinking from the other boy. There’s a moment spent blinking undecipherable messages at each other and before he knows it the silence has stretched on far too long.

“Well, we were thinking sixteen-hundred a month. Right... Tony?”

“Right,” he nods slowly, eyes darting between the two. “Single income, see. Parker - uh, Peter is still in school.”

“Oh, bless,” she says spiritedly, typing away at her keyboard. “It’s not easy, I know, been there. What do you do for work, young man?”

“Me?” Tony asks, gesturing to himself, shooting Peter a desperate look. “I’m... a mechanic...apprentice.”

Peter has to disguise his snort with a cough, the horse so far out of the gate there is no catching up to it.

“Good for you, darling,” she says distractedly as she busies herself with the monitor, missing the heated glare Tony sends him. “Let’s see, might be tight, but we may have something for you. One bed, one bath, a living room that can be converted to a second bedroom.”

“Great,” Peter nods hesitantly. “Where?”

“Across the street, actually,” she swivels the monitor on its stand to show them a set of blurry photos of a small apartment. “And it’s currently vacant - we can do an inspection right now, if you’d like?”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“One moment,” Tony smiles at her, holding up a finger.

There’s a screech as Tony pulls Peter’s chair across the linoleum with a single hand.

“This is getting out of hand,” Peter whisper-hisses, ducking his head.

“I know, I know, I know,” Tony squeezes his eyes shut, making placating motions with his hands that do little to appease Peter’s rising apprehension. “It’s alright, it’s under control. Listen, hear me out, we go to the inspection, have a look at the place --”

“You can’t be serious, dude, we’re sixteen.”

“We’re not going to actually fill out an application, numbnuts, listen; we go, we take some pictures, get some details about the property, add it to our report and bam, who needs a reference? Think about it! Who else is going to have this level of detail in their report?”

“I’m not exactly sure this is what Miss Ahn meant by field research.”

Tony pokes him in the forehead. 

“Think outside the box, precious. Rise above the urge to do the bare minimum and we might just get a good grade.”

Peter sneaks a glance at Miranda. “Fine,” he pokes Tony back in the chest. “But you do all the talking, smartass.”

“Fine with me.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

Tony turns back to Miranda and offers her a charming smile. 

“We’d love to. Lead the way.”

---

They door sticks when Miranda turns the key into the dead-lock.

She struggles with it momentarily, smiling assuredly at the two boys as she twists the doorknob back and forth, pressing her shoulder against the peeling wood, forcing it open with a bang.

“Here we are,” Miranda announces brightly.

The two follow her inside, sharing a reluctant look with each other as she leads them into what must be a living room, the click-clack of her heels echoing off the scuffed floorboards and bare walls.

The first thing that Peter notices is that the room, while void of furniture, seems impossibly small, even by New York standards.

With the three of them spread thinly throughout it, there are but a few inches of space between them. Barely any room for a couple of armchairs, let alone a full sofa or a coffee table.

At a glance, he takes stock of the cracks in the ceiling, the discoloured patches in the plaster and the splintered wood of the front door frame where it appears it has been forced open from the outside. The chain-lock is broken.

Tony is over by the far corner, wiping a finger through a layer of dust on the window sill. 

There’s a loud bang from upstairs.

“So, this is the living area,” Miranda says with a flourish of her wrists. “And if you follow me, this down here,” she leads them around the corner, “is the kitchen.”

The kitchen is comprised of a small formica bench, a stained backsplash and several cupboards missing their handles.

While Miranda continues to point out and inform them all of the ‘cosy’ and ‘quaint’ features, Tony slips his phone from his pocket and with a nod of acceptance, lingers back a few steps to take photographs of the apartment. 

While he’s doing so, Peter busies himself by inspecting the kitchen, toying with the dials of the oven and the two-burner stove top, testing the swing of the cupboard doors. 

Inside one of them is a dirty tea-cup and a dead cockroach.

“-- and as you can see, plenty of room for a dining table, maybe you might like to have friends over --”

He follows them into the bathroom, which is just as compact as the rest of the apartment. He tests the faucet, noting that the tiles are cracked, as is the bathtub. 

Most worryingly are the speckled spots of black spores along the higher walls and the ceiling. 

“-- it’s a big old tub, plenty of room,” she pats Tony on the stomach, “could fit two in a squeeze if you suck it in, aye? Now, this way please boys, let me show you the pièce de résistance --”

Tony guards his stomach with his hands, pouting as Miranda leads them to the adjacent room.

“This is the main bedroom,” she beams, flicking on the light. “Perfect, isn’t it?”

The two young men stall in the doorway, peering inside. 

The space, probably equipped to handle a solitary king-single and a drawer at best, isn’t particularly generous by any means. The flickering bright yellow globe seems to only highlight the blistering wallpaper and the suspiciously stained carpet.

It smells like weed and cat pee. 

“So as you can see, plenty of privacy for you two, the living room can be converted into a second bedroom if need be -- or if one of you needs to sleep on the couch,” she winks at them.

“Right,” Tony says slowly, nudging the other with his elbow. “What do you think...honey?”

“I don’t know, dear,” Peter says, elbowing him back. “What do you think?”

“I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

“Bless,” Miranda cuts in, leaning on the doorframe while she observes them. “You’re just adorable, you must be high-school sweethearts.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“...Y-Yes,” Tony says after a moment, voice croaky. His hand snakes out to awkwardly pat Peter on the shoulder. “...we are.”

“So, what do you think?”

“About him?” Tony points to Peter.

“About the apartment,” she laughs. “What do you think, do you like it?”

“Oh, um, I have a few questions actually,” Peter mentions, following them back into the kitchen area, ignoring the odd look that Tony sends him. “If that’s okay?”

What are you doing, Tony mouths, back turned to the realtor as he clears his throat. 

Peter holds a finger up to request a minute. There’s a struggle to each convey their message silently, however, Tony reluctantly concedes, spreading his hands wide in a theatrical approval to proceed.

He paces the room, shuffling at the bubbling linoleum that he’d narrowly tripped on coming in, bending down to inspect it.

“Do you know how long the apartment’s been vacant?” He directs his question to the realtor.

“Oh, not long,” she replies vaguely, flipping through her file. “Couple of days or weeks, I think. I’d have to check.”

Peter nods, glancing between the three, standing. 

“Umm, I noticed that the oven doesn’t heat up. I thought that maybe the gas was turned off but the stove works? Also, um, in the living room there’s a section of floorboard that’s rotting with because there’s a water leak from the ceiling?”

Miranda’s smile freezes. “Oh, is there? That must be new.”

Peter wrings his hands together, glancing at Tony, stomach swooping at his own boldness. “And, uh, I noticed that the windows stick; the water pressure is funny, too?”

“I can get that checked --”

“There’s black mold in some of the rooms. I think because there isn’t temperature control, the windows are west-facing, so it must get pretty humid in the summer.” 

Peter looks to the other boy in what he hopes seems heartfelt. “I don’t mind, I only mention it because Tony’s... well, he’s got asthma.”

Tony coughs, catching on. 

“Yes, that’s right.”

Miranda’s posture crumples at that, her professional veneer instantly wiped from her face. 

“You’re right, this place is a dump,” she admits, kicking at the floor, spreading her arms out wide. “Look at it, it’s vile. I wouldn’t let my wretched old mother-in-law live here, the old bag. I’m sorry, boys.”

“Well, actually,” Peter says, gesturing between himself and Tony, stepping closer to him. “We’d be happy to do all the repairs and look the other way about the safety violations if there’s any wriggle room on the rent?”

Miranda flicks through the papers she’s holding, adjusting her glasses as she reads through it. The adjacent neighbors can be heard yelling through the thin walls.

“We do have a margin to drop it from sixteen-fifty to... fifteen-hundred a month for the right tenants. Not going to lie, the landlord is pretty desperate. Would you like an application?”

Tony clamps his hand on Peter’s shoulder, squeezing it. “We’ll think about it. Could we get all of those terms in writing, pretty please?”

Peter grins.

---

“I can’t tell if that was genius or crazy,” Tony says after they’ve departed ways with Miranda, headed back towards the Mustang on the other side of the road. “Seriously can’t say I expected that.”

The pair jog across the road once there is a gap in traffic.

After Ben passed, Peter and May moved twice. As a young child Peter saw another apartment as just that - another place to set down his duffle of second-hand clothes and thrift store toys. But May was smart. Savvy. She calls it the Parker Discount. 

Peter shrugs when they reach the car.

“Well, just because our report is meant to focus on budget against costs, doesn’t mean we can’t find ways to save money and maximise it. Not when you consider insurance, bills, food. It all adds up.”

“I’m still trying to pick my jaw up from the floor. Didn’t know you had that in you, Parker.”

“Yeah well, you don’t know anything about me,” Peter says to the ground, kicking at the pavement, “so.”

He tries not to squirm under the weight of Tony’s considering gaze, like a vice tight on the back of his neck. He feels the moment something shifts, as if a pin pricks the wall between them, easier to breathe.

“Look, whatever you think about me, I don’t care, but you probably couldn’t find a better partner for this project. I know more about this than you do.”

“Alright, no need to crow about it, I just said I was impressed. Don’t let it get to your head.”

Peter’s stomach growls loudly over the evening traffic before he can respond. 

“Sorry,” he says, cursing the timing of his body, “haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

Tony nods to a diner across the road.

“You wanna?”

“Oh,” he objects, worried about his bone-dry bank balance, “I’m not --”

“C’mon, dickweed, my treat. Don’t leave a guy hanging, it’s not polite.”

Tony waits patiently, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s sure it’s a look that many have fallen for. A crooked, wry smile and a self-confident air that one might confuse between charm and indolence. 

He feels out of his depth for once, and isn’t sure if he likes it. But his stomach growls again and he’s got nothing to lose except for his appetite. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Sure.”

---

It’s the most surreal experience he’s ever had.

He pinches himself to believe that it’s real, that he’s dining out on a Tuesday evening in the boroughs with Tony Stark. The same guy he thought might murder him just last week.

He’s still not so sure that’s out of the question, to be honest. It would be the most normal thing about this entire day.

The silence is definitely awkward this time, sat at a table outside under a weather-protective canvass while they wait for their meal. A woman with a large doberman sits nearby, giving them odd looks every so often as she speaks loudly on her phone.

Peter’s nursing a giant glass of cola. The only sounds between them since they ordered have been the clinking of ice cubes from his glass and the sound of bubbles as he blew through the straw for a lack of better things to do.

From the daggers he’s getting from Tony, he’d wage that he’s annoying him - hence the probable murder - but he’s spared by their waitress returning with their meals.

A truly monstrous pile of fries is placed before Tony, along with a burger, a sundae and a milkshake. He takes off his dress shirt to reveal a black undershirt, as if in preparation to sweat through the meal.

Big meal for a big mouth, Peter thinks, as his own BLT is set before him. 

It’s weird.

Tony is weird.

This whole damn thing is weird.

“Don’t you think this is weird?” he asks, idly picking a seed from his crust and nibbling on it.

“Yeah,” Tony sighs. 

“I don’t like it.”

“Me neither. What was I thinking?”

“Dunno,” Peter says.

It’s quiet again after that. And it’s weird. Sitting down with over a civil meal with Stark or any of his cohorts wasn’t particularly on his bucket list for junior year, but here he was, picking at his crusts, dying to pee.

Tony takes three fries from the pile and dips them into his sundae, then the milkshake before eating them.

“Dude, gross.”

Tony looks at him oddly. “Uh, no it’s not. Have you never dipped your fries in ice cream before?”

“Is that a metaphor for sex?”

“What? No, you weirdo,” Tony shakes his head. “Are you serious? You’ve never -- god, that explains everything,” he slides his fries across the table a few inches. “Though it truly nauseates me to share with you, I can’t let this stand. Try it.”

“Ew, not after you’ve touched them --”

Tony slides his milkshake closer.

“Try it, butthole. You won’t totally hate it, promise. Well, you might, but if you do it’s just gonna confirm that your taste is garbage, which is what I already think about you. Anyway. C’mon, try it.”

Peter, while staring at Tony, begrudgingly accepting a fry from the peak of the pile and scooping it in ice cream from Tony’s sundae.  

He waits for the moment the combination of textures will make his stomach turn while he hesitantly chews, but instead is pleasantly surprised that the sweet salty flavours compliment one another so well.

“Not the worst, is it?” Tony grins knowingly, placing another fry in his mouth in the same manner. “I’m right, aren’t I? It’s good. Say it. I’m right.”

“It’s alright,” Peter says, stealing another fry to make sure. “Don’t let it go to your already inflated cranium.”

The self-satisfied smirk on Tony’s lips tells him it already has.

Quiet fills the space between them again, more charged than before in a manner that Peter can’t really describe. Like as if there was a soft buzz in the air, like he would get be struck with static electricity were he to touch it. 

Not keen on getting stung, he continues eating his sandwich.

Tony on the other hand, has other ideas.

“So, Peter Parker, now that I know you’re not a total dumbass, tell me this,” he takes a deep breath, his expression grim, “ -- do you wear glasses for the aesthetic or what?”

Peter stares at him.

“C’mon. Are you aiming for nerd chic? You shouldn’t, it’s very 2012.”

“Dude, no. I know glasses are like a thing or whatever but I actually do need them to see. I’m like, blind as fuck.” 

“How blind is blind as fuck?”

“Pretty blind.”

He takes off his glasses and twirls a finger in the direction the smudge of colour that he assumes is Tony.

“Can’t see you, like at all,” he squints. “You’re just a blur. Which is the best you’ve ever looked.”

Tony takes the glasses from his outstretched hand, and he has a hysterical moment where he thinks that Tony might go so low as to steal them, but is quickly realizes he’s just trying them on. He whistles before handing them back to Peter.

“Yup, those are prescription alright. The fuck? Why don’t you wear contacts?”

Peter shrugs, slipping his glasses back on. Stark comes back in perfect clarity. 

“They’re super expensive,” he’s alright with admitting to Tony at this point. “I have some I use for matches, or for special occasions, but I dunno, I’m used to glasses.”

“Do you have to clean them all the time?”

“Yes.”

In fact, there’s smudge from where Tony has inadvertently touched the lens.

“Have you ever stepped on your glasses accidentally?”

“Yep.”

He’s done it more than once but he’ll never forget the first time, how upset he was in the moment or how he fruitlessly tried to hide his face from Ben and May so they wouldn’t see the cracks in the lenses. He cried when they found out. 

That first time was just weeks after his parents had died, and he’d already been laden with thoughts of being a bother and a financial burden on the couple. They never stopped trying to prove that he wasn’t a hardship to care for. Sometimes, on mornings like the one he had, he still can’t help but wonder how much better off they might have been without him.

They eat in contemplative silence afterwards. While he finishes his sandwich he watches as Tony surreptitiously feeds his fries to the doberman under the table, unbeknownst to the owner. He has to eat quickly to conceal the smile taking over his lips when the dog slowly shuffles closer to their table with purpose, looking at Tony with big, soulful eyes. 

Once he’s finished eating and there’s nothing left to hide his amusement, he resumes their conversation.

Clearing his throat, he points towards the Mustang once he has Tony’s attention. “Okay, your turn. What’s with the deal with the old girl?”

"My car?”

"Yeah. Explain the whole greaser vibe.”

The other boy is quiet for a moment, his gaze searching Petter contemplatively, a napkin being twisted between his hands.

“She was a hunk’a junk when I bought her, mostly scrap metal. I bought all the spare parts and got her up to scratch. I dunno, I just like cars, tinkering with them or whatever.”

“You restored her by yourself?” Peter asks, reluctantly impressed. 

He looks at the car again, trying to picture it.

It wasn’t hard to imagine Tony Stark getting his hands dirty, being the prized pig that he was, but having the wherewithal and competence to rebuild a vintage vehicle at sixteen? It would explain the whole Danny Zuko, T-Bird look, but with his bank balance, he could have easily bought a Mustang in mint condition without having to lift a finger. It would explain the streaks of oil from the other day.

Tony shrugs, twisting a napkin between his hands.

“Sorta. Anyway, quit your judging, four-eyes.”

“Not judging,” Peter holds his hands up in innocence. “I just didn’t expect that about you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m exceptional, I know.”

"That’s not the word I would use,” Peter allows. “But you’re not the worst.”

A flash of surprise briefly crosses the other boys face before it disappears. 

“High praise,” he says wryly, resting his chin on his hand. He looks Peter up and down slowly, his big, curious eyes made warm by the dying sunlight. 

“I’m as shocked as you are.”

“...You’re not the worst either, I guess,” Tony sighs like it pains him to admit it. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we could never be friends -”

“Definitely not -”

“ - but you’re not completely intolerable. God, never thought I’d say that. Maybe I’m growing as a person.”

“Am I still a neanderthal?”

Sipping his milkshake through the straw, Tony raises his shoulders half-heartedly.

Peter kicks his foot from under the table, unwilling to take that for an answer, even if Tony kicks him back, his eyes flicking upwards briefly, his smile almost bashful. In the dying light of the sunset he almost looks soft; approachable.

“Probably shouldn’t have called you that, huh.”

“Probably not. Is that an apology?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Don’t push it, Parker. I’m just saying you’re not completely abhorrent. Who knew.”

“I knew. I just don’t know why you’ve always hated me so much.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out small and quiet, but he can’t take it back once the words have left his mouth.

It starts to rain.

“Sorry,” Peter says, louder to be heard over the droplets hitting the overhead umbrella heavily, immediately feeling stupid. “I shouldn’t have -- it’s not a big deal. I mean, I really don’t like you either.”

“Can I get you boys anything else?” 

Both boys turn towards the waitress who’s approached their table, lined-lips smiling down at them, a notepad in her hand.

Tony throws a fifty down on the table and stands and Peter follows suit.

“Nah,” he says, cocking his head to the door. “We’re good.”

---

“See you back at school?” Peter yells to be heard over the rain, back on the sidewalk.

“I’ll drive you back,” Tony yells back, wet hair clinging to his face.

“What?” Peter cups a hand over his ear.

“What?” Tony does the same. “I said I’ll give you a lift!”

“The station isn’t far,” he points. “I can walk!”

“Don’t make me look like an asshole! Get in, princess!”

With the rain pelting his thin shirt and thunder cracking angrily from above, he doesn’t spend his energy arguing. He gets in.

---

The short drive back is amicable, music muted, the pitter-patter of the easing rain filling the ever-growing comfortable silence between them.

With the heater going it doesn’t take long to dry off and restore the feeling back to his fingers. Heat beats from the vents beating pleasantly and along with being sated from the meal, Peter feels like he could nod off at any moment. He has to keep snapping his eyes open, although it’s difficult to adjust his focus as the sunset bleeds into a ruddy orange on the wet windshield, the lights from the cars blurring into bright long streaks of colour. 

"You’re not a total lost cause, Tony admits, slowing as they near his apartment block. It’s the first time either of them has spoken since starting the drive back. “Look, maybe it’s the fact that your face looks like a puckered asshole when you speak, I don’t know. There’s just something about you that really rubs me the wrong way."

Peter cringes as they come to a stop outside his building.

"I don't want to rub you in any way."

"And yep, here comes the mental image,” Tony’s nose scrunches, like an infant that just ate something sour. “Gross. Thanks, Parker.”

“Welcome.”

He unbuckles himself and opens the door, hesitating for a second while the moment settles between them. 

“Thanks for the grub and the ride, I guess. Text me when you get the paperwork from Miranda?”

“Aye, aye,” Tony mock salutes him. “Now get out of my car.”

Peter complies, giving him the finger by way of goodbye. 

Once the car merges and disappears into the traffic, he grins down at his hands, cheeks going warm.

It’s the thrall of finally feeling on equal-footing, he reasons, as he takes the step back up to his apartment. That’s what it is. His stomach is inexplicably still squirming as he enters ascends the floors, going over the day in his head until he arrives at his door.

It smells like tikka masala and too much ginger when he enters. He sets his backpack by the door, placing his keys on a nearby hook. 

May greets him with a sway of her spatula, sauce hitting the splashback with the motion.

“Hey bubby,” she says, gripping his shoulder as he nears and kissing his cheek.

Upon closer inspection, he finds that the kitchen is sparking clean. The floors have been mopped, the grout between the tiling is without a speck of dirt and there are faint notes of harsh disinfectant below the smell of spices.

“Oh wow,” Peter says, looking down at the chicken and bean assortment. The rice on the burner looks soggy and overcooked. “That looks great. How was work?”

She gestures vaguely but doesn’t meet his eyes.

“You hungry?”

It’s the same weird behaviour from this morning and he doesn’t have the heart to say that he’s already eaten.

Instead, he collects the cutlery and napkins, takes a stack of bowls and helps her plate up.

“Dancing With The Stars?” he asks, tilting his head towards the living room. He hip-checks her when she doesn’t reply. “C’mon, you’re not going to let me eat all alone, are ya? Tony says ‘hi’, by the way.”

He doesn’t know why he adds that last part, recalling the exchange rom the other day, but it’s worth it to see her smile.

“Alright,” she nods, scooping rice into the bowls. “How is Tony?”

Everything that happened that day bleeds away, unimportant, insignificant. 

“He’s alright, I guess.”

---

May falls asleep on the sofa hours later. 

He doesn’t want to move her, as exhausted as she is, so he covers her with an old blanket and removes the glasses from her face, placing them on the coffee table. He cleans up as quietly as he can and places her phone on charge in the living room.

On his way to bed he checks his phone for the time. Both Bucky and Tony have sent him text messages, the latter with the awaited paperwork.

Ben would be proud of him, he thinks, smiling as he reads through some of it, saving the rest of it until he’s more alert.

Maybe it wasn’t such a horrible end to the day after all.

---

*

*

---

tagging: @bylerboyfriends @ravens-starker-stuff, @starker-rays, @ironspiderstarker, @muse-of-gods, @notfor-temporaryuse, @tabbycat1220, @sugarfreecult, @rebel13lion39, @plueschpop, @spideravocados, @jellybbunny,  @booktrashme, @elfkido, @mycatislickingmybedsheets, @queerghostboyo, @disneyprincessdominatrix, @cherrygoldlove @starkerflowers @starkeristheendgame @thewolffearsher @starkersugar

[geeks-universe]

Bound By Blood: Where Worry Wakes

Future Gabriel x Winchester!Reader

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

A/N: Some answers, but more questions.

Your father was gone. Again.

You felt a little more at peace with it than you had before. The first time you’d left your father behind had been after a fight, one that still hadn’t been fully resolved. You were glad you could say that this wasn’t nearly as drastic, but you still did feel like you needed him there.

You were going through something and you weren’t sure what it was, but you needed somebody. Your father had always been someone who could shelter you from the supernatural, so it only felt right that you take this matter to him. He was far too busy at the moment. You could talk to him about it after you killed the demon.

Until then, you’d just have to deal with the sympathetic smiles Sam kept sending your way and the worried looks Dean kept giving you.

Speak of the devil, you thought bitterly.

Dean kept flicking his eyes in your direction. It was getting pretty late, but the three of you hadn’t turned in for the night quite yet. Sam had already picked out your next case from some website that claimed to know all about the supernatural. You highly doubted it, but you’d take anything that would get your mind off of whatever was happening to you.

“You should get some sleep,” Dean suggested lowly, casting you a long, meaningful look.

You sighed.

“Someone needs to stay up with you,” you argued weakly, your eyelids already far too heavy to offer any real company for Dean.

He rolled his eyes.

“I’m a grown man, I think I can handle it,” he grumbled, adjusting his position in the seat so he would be a little more alert, if only for a few minutes.

“Only if you promise to pull over soon. We’re all exhausted, we could use a real night of sleep.”

He nodded.

“Deal,” he stated, looking back at Sam, who was currently cuddled up along the backseat of the Impala, resting as peacefully as one can whilst on a hunt for a demon and lying on a bench that’s two sizes too small.

“Dean?”

Your voice gave him pause. It was meek, quiet, unlike the sarcastic drawl or bubbly tone he was used to. You sounded vulnerable, and that scared the hell out of him, because out of everyone in this family, he knew without a doubt that you were the strongest emotionally.

“Yeah?”

His mouth was suddenly dry, eyes unable to focus on driving. His finger was nervously tapping against the wheel while he awaited your response. You were struggling to form your words, looking around for something that might remind you of what, exactly, you were trying to say.

“Forget it,” you muttered, not bothering to ask him for advice on what was going on. He wouldn’t know anyways.

Dean was about to argue, about to inquire about what seemed so imperative you ask him just a moment ago. But one look into your eyes deterred him. They were lost, distant, and so very tired. Your knuckles were white from the pressure of pressing them so hard against your palms, droplets of blood seeping from the place your nails met the smooth skin of your hands.

“Like I said,” Dean offered, “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

The lull into a fitful sleep wasn’t an easy one, especially with Dean keeping such a close eye on you. Eventually, though, your exhaustion trumped the thoughts running rampant in your mind, and you found yourself fading into a golden dreamworld.

You were aware that you were dreaming, but you didn’t fight it. Instead, you allowed the calm land of the world around you to help you relax. 

“(Y/N).”

The voice wasn’t the lyrical tone you expected. It was harsh, a flaming red in a field of gold. 

You reached forward, dragging your fingers along the golden blades of grass, as you tried to ground yourself in the dreamworld.

“You are unexpected.”

It was a man. You could just begin to make out features, the slope of his nose and the purse of his lips. He was staring at you like you were an enigma, one he could manipulate and forge into a warrior for his own cause. 

Unconsciously, you took a step back, trying to put distance between you and him.

“Who are you?” You asked, your words uncharacteristically weak.

Just his presence in the sanctuary your mind had built for you felt wrong. It was tearing at the fabric of your consciousness, unwinding the golden symphony that had been protecting you.

Then, just as quickly as he appeared, he was gone.

The scene before you shifted, the aureate world shattering into darkness. Your father was there, bleeding, his words venom as he spoke, though you couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. Lightning flashed, pulling your gaze to the dark sky as veins of light crackled across the heavens.

Sam was there now.

His body was in tremors, a force pulling him down and down, further into the dark abyss. Whispers of madness curled around his form, solidifying to blood. Fear gave way to strength, as his eyes darkened to a black, and the Sam you knew was gone, replaced by a demonic beast.

You were rooted to the spot as he advanced on you, far faster than what any human would be able to do. A cold hand shoved you backwards, and you fell.

You struggled to grasp onto something, anything that could stop you. There was nothing. You kept falling, accelerating as the swirling in your stomach became a pit. Air was torn from your lungs as your limbs flailed, your head spinning at the weightlessness suddenly thrust upon you.

Then you landed.

It wasn’t painful, like the fall might suggest, but rather filled with a dread you couldn’t acknowledge.

This time, Dean was there.

His eyes were wide open, mouth twisted in a scream he couldn’t release. Blue tinged at the edges of his fingers, where he reached for you, and you rushed to his side. His heart was still in his chest, his body cold. Tears gathered in your eyes as you realized he was dead.

Your voice was silenced as you tried to cry out, begging yourself to wake up from the nightmare. Reprieve was offered by a hand on your shoulder.

It was filled with a warmth you’d never felt before. Dean gasped, life festering in his eyes as he smiled at you, like he hadn’t been dead just a moment before.

“What-”

“Nightmares,” the owner of the hand on your shoulder provided. “Or the future, I can’t tell anymore.”

You wanted to look at him, to understand who it was, but you couldn’t. Your whole body was frozen, caught in the position of mourning, while you tried desperately to make sense of everything around you.

“Now, I’d really like to know who you are, because you keep interrupting my dreams, sugar.”

A light shake was enough to have you bolting upright, reaching instinctively to your hip, where your gun typically sat. You hadn’t even been able to process the world in front of you, hopping into action before another strange dream left you immobile.

“Woah, hey,” Sam held his hands up in surrender, the bright sun blinding you from behind his tall stature.

You released a breath, dropping your gun to the floor of the Impala, where you’d fallen asleep. It took a few seconds to compose yourself, your eyes slipping shut as a wave of dizziness passed.

“Look, if you’re not okay…”

“I’m fine,” you told him, shrugging off his help as you got to your feet. He still remained close by, vigilant, just in case you were to keel over. “Where are we?”

“Richardson,” he answered, grabbing both his and your bag from the trunk. 

You fought a smile. Whenever Dean was worried about you, everyone in the vicinity knew about it. When Sam was worried though, he kept his actions a little more subtle. He’d take your bag in, or let you have the shower first. While being constantly worried about was a little smothering, you knew it was their way of expressing their love.

“Alright, where to first?”

There wasn’t a lot about the case you really knew, but Sam had done a decent bit of research to at least give you a place to start.

“For you? Here.” His tone brokered no argument, yet you found yourself disputing it anyways.

“You can’t keep me cooped up, you know.” You reminded him, crossing your arms over your chest as you leaned against the Impala. “I’ve been hunting longer than you have.”

“Yes, but he hasn’t been… whatever the hell you’ve been lately.” Dean interjected, walking up to the driver’s side. He nodded his head in the direction of the motel room you would be staying in.

“We don’t really know what we’re walking into,” Sam reasoned, “I could use the extra help on the research front.”

Sam’s voice was much softer than Dean’s. He was trying to get you comfortable with the idea, rather than force it. You still frowned at being benched. Hunting was your escape more often than not, and without it you didn’t really know who you were.

“Just for this case,” you conceded, huffing while you did so.

Sam shot you a smile, but Dean kept a grim expression. You knew the two of you would definitely be clashing in the foreseeable future on whether you were prepared to hunt or not.

The two of them left shortly after without instructing you on anything about the case. Deciding it was better than being deadweight, you began the long and arduous journey of researching a hunting case. You really would’ve preferred being out in the field, but you didn’t have the energy of fighting both brothers right now.

A full day came and went of you doing little outside of research. You’d even called Bobby at one point, not because you needed anything, but because you were dreadfully bored.

You slept as little as possible, hoping to stay away from whatever was plaguing your dreams for the moment. It worked for the most part, but you knew it was only a temporary solution. After this case, you promised yourself you would divert more of your attention into understanding what was happening.

Between the three of you, you had discovered the haunting was little more than a farce- an urban legend turned real because of one pesky symbol and a whole lot of believing. 

“We need your help,” Dean admitted, after having a long discussion with Sam.

You looked up from the book you were reading with interest.

“Nothing dangerous,” he reaffirmed, meeting you with a grimace.

You visibly deflated at his disregard for your capabilities again.

“Their names are Ed and Harry,” Dean continued, blatantly ignoring your annoyance at him, “We just need you to feed them a little story, help us take down the whole thing.”

“And why would they listen to me?” You inquired, raising a brow.

“You’re a girl,” Sam deadpanned from his place in the doorway. “I don’t know about this, maybe-”

“Relax, Samwise,” you waved off his concern, reminding him of the nickname you so lovingly gave him years ago, “Nothing dangerous, like Dean said.”

Your smile was too sweet, and your eyes too filled with mischief, but the brother’s didn’t argue.

This was your opportunity to remind them of how much of an asset you were. You weren’t about to disappoint, but you also weren’t about to miss out on having a little fun, especially at their expense.

[cockasinthebird]

ahhh grats on the milestone!! also holy shit youve got 500 prompts stored away somewhere??? im gonna go with my favourite number combo..... 317 👀 im super excited to see what you come up with!! 💖 -bbsitterpng

@babysitterpng  Thank you so much!!! And yes, 500 goddamn prompts, all carefully curated, only the best for my beloved mutuals and followers!!

I got SO ELATED when I saw that you sent me a mystery prompt request!!!! ❤️💕 I would have finished it yesterday, but I got uhhh distracted 😏😏😏

317. “I think you’ll be happy to know I’m not wearing any underwear.”

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again and again and again; I knew exactly what I wanted to write for this immediately, and while I worry the exposition seems too rushed, I am very satisfied with the rest, all near 4k words!

So please, enjoy~

-

Today has been a long day that started when the sun had barely found its place in the sky.

Neil was beating at his bedroom door, asking why it’s locked, threatening to kick it down, demanding that Billy get up right now to mow the lawn, just to complain about what a shitty job he did after, shouting about how he has to do everything himself.

Billy would beat his pillows, lift weights till his muscles hurt, and smoke like a chimney, all to alleviate stress in one way or another.

At 12 Max was leaving to go play DnD with her little loser friends, ready to skate her way over there, but Billy needed to get out of the house, have a valid excuse, and it doesn’t get better than “watching out for his little sister.”

They’re on good terms now, after they had gotten in an intense fight and she screamed at him to just leave her and her friends alone, and after not spending every waking hour hating and antagonizing her, she’s not as annoying anymore, and Billy thinks that perhaps his anger was the issue here, not her being a little shit.

That realisation helped him a lot in general. It’s around that time he “apologised” to Harrington the best he could, but when Steve was nice and understanding of his issues, it only made him angry again. Billy doesn’t believe he deserves to be forgiven so easily, no, Harrington should have hit him, defended himself, gotten pissed and told Billy to fuck off.

Instead they wound up at Benny’s diner, sharing a giant plate of fries and a milkshake each.

“My treat,” Steve insisted.

And that’s when old issues resurfaced; the same exact issues that meant they had to leave California. The same exact issues that brought Billy’s wrath upon this pretty boy. The same exact issues that led one thing to another, and now Billy knows the route from his house to the Harrington Mansion like the back of his hand; could drive it with his eyes closed now.

But he doesn’t want to seem needy or clingy. Doesn’t want to be what he is - the way he is.

So after dropping Max off at the Wheeler’s house, the fiery redhead even going as far as to offer him a bit of a smile, he didn’t go home. Didn’t drive to Steve’s house either no matter how much he wanted to.

Don’t be needy, don’t be clingy. You’ll see him later.

So for four hours he drove around town, smoked by the quarry, got admired at a gas station when he refilled, passed Steve’s street far too many times, went to the empty pool that’s closed for the year and sat with his feet over the edge and smoked some more, restlessly kicking the tiling. Over the course of this time he checked his watch at least a billion times.

When it was finally 4pm, he drove to pick up his sister and El - the gang having managed to convince both Steve and Billy to take them to the movies to watch the last screening of The Neverending Story, which doesn’t exactly sound like something he wants to watch, but knowing Steve will be there, he agreed all too readily.

And as he pulls back up to the Wheeler’s again, he sees the brown BMW, Steve leaning against the door as he waits for the boys to pile into his car. Billy’s heart is beating like a painful drum in his aching chest, and when Steve sees him sitting and waiting for the girls, he smiles at him and waves.

Billy is as always astounded and breathless by the way Steve smiles, the way Steve looks at him now, like he’s happy to see him. He can’t smile back, he wants to, but his face feels dull and incapacitated. He wants to just kick open his car door, stomp up to Steve and fucking kiss him. Instead he simply waves back.

Then Max breaks the trance as she pulls open the door and crawls in to sit in the back with El.

“What the hell took you guys so long, I’m starving,” Billy complains as he looks over his shoulder at them.

Max is smart and doesn’t answer, and Billy is smart and doesn’t ask again. No he remains quiet as they follow the beemer, Max and El laughing loud and joyous behind him like girls their age do, talking about shit he doesn’t care for, just focuses on the car in front as they drive to Benny’s diner for early dinner before going to wolf down popcorn at the cinema.

-

The gang is eager and excited, like kids should be, running to the diner as they talk all too frantically about whatever it is kids talk about, Billy is really not paying attention, when Steve is right there.

“Find a booth where we can all sit!” Steve shouts after them, and Billy’s not sure if they heard him at all. “Hey Hargrove, got a smoke?” his voice kinder and friendly, too friendly, as he addresses Billy.

Steve leans against the hood of the camaro, smiling all too wide. He’s dressed in high waisted jeans and a red crop top that shows just enough of a midriff for it to be too much for Billy.

He takes up a spot next to Steve, just far away enough for it to not be suspicious, but absolutely too far away for it to not be enough, yet even from here he can smell the floral soap and honey shampoo. Can’t help but think of how soft Steve’s skin is, how silky his hair is, all newly washed and clean of him. Wonders if the purple hickeys are still visible across his chest, up his thighs.

Even though Steve is trying his best to meet Billy’s gaze, he refuses to look at him just in case it would be too obvious what he’s thinking about, as he unwraps a fresh pack of Marlboro and offers one up.

When Billy ignites his lighter and reaches forth, Steve touches his hand, holds it steady as he leans in to bring his cigarette to the flame. There’s a burning sensation where his pale, soft hand connects them, and when Steve dares rub Billy’s wrist with his fingers, there’s a pain shooting through his heart, a sharp wanting for more. No, a need for more. He’s caught staring at those pretty, pink lips when Steve pulls away and exhales a cloud.

“What’s wrong?” he asks with a wry smile, clearly aware.

“You know damn well ‘what’s wrong’,” Billy snaps a bit harsher than intended as he continues to force himself to look away.

Thankfully Steve takes it well and huffs a laugh filled with smoke.

They end up in silence after that; the comfortable kind that comes from being at peace together, easy and relaxed and pleasant, one where they don’t need words because there’s no longer any doubt between them. Perhaps that’s what love is, as cheesy and gross as that may be, Billy ponders. To be able to just exist together without it being awkward or stilted. Perhaps he’s fallen a bit in love with his ex-rival. Or perhaps he’s just in love with how he feels when he’s with Steve, both physical and not.

It isn’t till Steve finishes his cigarette, drops it on the asphalt and stomps it out, that he speaks,

“Oh, I almost forgot, I wanted to tell you something.” He’s smiling like the cat that got the cream, licking his lips a bit too slowly as he goes to whisper in Billy’s ear, “I think you’ll be happy to know I’m not wearing any underwear.”

Billy’s heart skips several beats at that, before then going too fast - rapidly pumping blood through him, and there’s a certain rush of it going straight to his dick. He stares too long into those deep, dark eyes, mischievous and satisfied with the response as Billy short circuits.

“What?”

Steve shrugs and tips his head to the side a bit, acting all innocent and oblivious, lips drawn tight in a smile that goes from ear to ear. He opens his mouth and takes a long inhale, insinuating that he’s about to say something, then simply turns around, hands in his pockets as he walks towards the diner.

Leaving Billy behind, baffled, astonished, dumbfounded.

-

The next two hours feels like days.

They sit in the diner, Billy and Steve across from one another.

The kids are still as energetic as before, their voices a jumble of words and phrases and retellings of DnD from today’s session. Steve chews on his straw as he tries to follow along with whatever they’re talking about, laughing when they laugh, nodding on occasions. Whenever he looks over at Billy, blue eyes flee to stare out the window instead, finding great interest in the pattern of how one street light flickers.

Before the movie starts, they go to let out water by the urinals of the cinema, Billy standing right next to Steve, having hoped to catch a glimpse, see if he’s telling the truth, the urge near irresistible to just take a quick look, but the other men around them might not take too kindly to something like that.

And during the movie they sit together at the end of the row.

Steve, Billy, Max, El, Mike, Will, Dustin, Lucas.

He didn’t care for the movie before, only going along as a sign of friendliness and to have an excuse to not be home, but now. Now he’s almost hating having to sit here, next to Steve, shoulders nearly touching, shoes pressed together on the dark floor, only an armrest between them.

For the first twenty arduous minutes, Steve doesn’t do anything, doesn’t say anything, showing no sign of registering how near they are, just watches the movie in silence with a smile, while Billy is sat next to him, burning up despite his shirt being unbuttoned as always, mind racing with thoughts and images of Steve Steve Steve.

So distracted by all of that, that he nearly jumps when Steve touches his hand. Same softness and tenderness from earlier on the parking lot, the way Steve always touches him with just a hint of hesitance when they’re not completely alone.

But the cinema is dark, the kids are entranced, and there’s barely a handful of people besides them, so maybe it’s safe enough.

Billy raises his fingers into the touch, thinking that Steve wants to hold hands, intertwine them, any of that stupid romantic shit that he loves and Billy pretends to only barely tolerate, but the touch moves past that, a feather across the back of his hand, up to gently and carefully grab him by the wrist.

At that, Billy finally looks down, keeps facing the big screen but pays acute attention to what Steve is doing, where he’s leading his hand, placing it on his knee, Billy’s fingers in between spread legs. He continues to guide the hand further up, towards the heat of where his thighs meet, effectively sending Billy’s heart rate sky high.

When he finally turns his head, he finds Steve staring right back, a small and restrained smile, and in that moment, Billy feels like he can read Steve’s thoughts, knows exactly what’s on his mind, never doubts it for a second, and is proved right when Steve stands up and climbs over the seat to walk along the empty row behind them.

Billy whips around to Max, and hisses out, “We’re going for a smoke, don’t fucking go anywhere.”

“Yeah yeah,” she groans all indifferent and waves him away, eyes big and caught in the movie.

-

The bathroom at the Hawk is as clean as it ever gets, and perhaps not too shockingly, empty. Movies are running and people are seated.

Steve stands looking at himself in the mirror, fixing his hair, not that it looks any different to Billy now than before.

He takes heavy steps towards the brunette, announcing himself and catches Steve’s eyes in the mirror, watching as Billy approaches and steps behind him. Billy leans in to run his nose up Steve’s neck, inhaling deeply and humming out pleasantly, blinking slowly as he keeps pressing his face into the crook there, not quite kissing yet.

Eyes dart back to the mirror where heavenly blue meets chocolate brown, a feverish intensity there as Steve stares back. Gently, but with no hesitation, Billy snakes his arms around Steve’s waist, past the belt and up to touch where skin shows between jeans and the top.

When there’s no ‘stop’, he keeps going, curls his fingers around the red fabric and lifts up, exposing Steve’s chest to the both of them in the mirror. Bitten and marked, purple and red, Billy eyes his masterwork with an appreciative gaze, and with one hand keeping the shirt away, he moves the other up to graze his fingers across each little bruise his lips left just two days ago.

Steve hums a bit, erotic and turned on, and if more were to happen now, it wouldn’t be the first time they’d found their way together in public. And perhaps that thought strikes Steve just as it does Billy, for he pushes back into him, rubbing his soft ass against where he finds a slight bulge already.

“Fuck, Stevie…” Billy huffs and breathes against Steve’s neck, eyes closed as he relishes in the slow friction, kissing sloppy and half-minded against pale skin. “You really wanna do this here? Where the kids could just walk in any moment?”

“I would have maybe pushed you into a stall first,” Steve laughs, a slight stutter to it. “But I was thinking your car? The movie is like two hours, we could find an alley, park there, let me ride your cock?”

A growl escapes by the enchantment of those words, and Billy bites into Steve’s neck, earning him an illicit little hiss and smirk.

“How am I supposed to say no when you put it like that?”

-

Neither of them feel particularly bad for just abandoning the gang like that, but they’ll be quick, hidden in this alleyway, not too far away from the theatre, a bit of fun while the others gawk and gape at the magic of movies.

But it’s hard to be remorseful, when Steve is moaning like this, Billy two fingers deep in him in the driver's seat of the camaro.

Steve didn't lie about going commando today; told Billy, “When I found out you were tagging along, I hoped I’d get to have you alone like this.”

It took Steve less than two seconds to start getting undressed when Billy turned off the engine, whereafter he crawled right onto his lap, hard and bottomless, knees over Billy’s shoulders, feet locked behind the headrest, back against the steering wheel. 

“Ah-h, mmh, fuck, Billy-” he whines, hands placed firm on Billy’s legs for support as he lifts and angles his ass to allow Billy access with lubed up fingers.

His other hand squeezes Steve’s leaking prick, using the precum to slick up the flesh, keeping him hard and crying like that. His own lonesome cock aches where it lies full against his stomach; the button down having been opened completely to avoid staining it, and giving Steve something to admire.

“Billy, please, just- oh- just fuck me already!” Steve’s voice pitched high with lust and impatience, brows drawn together, his arms shaking underneath his own weight.

“Just don’t wanna hurt you, baby,” Billy purrs.

He watches with great interest as he pumps two fingers in and out of Steve’s wet hole, making a scissoring motion to stretch him properly.

“Mmh, we don’t exactly have time for that, and I need you so bad,” Steve says with the sweetest, most alluring tone he can.

And God if that doesn’t go straight to Billy’s twitching dick.

“You sure?” He wants to double check anyways.

“Yes- yes! Just- get a condom, I don’t wanna ruin my favourite pants.”

Billy chuckles lightly at that thought as he leans to reach for the glovebox, absolutely turned on by the idea of Steve walking around brimming with him, his cum dripping out and running down his thighs. Perhaps another time.

The condom rolls on with ease, Billy having become quite the expert with one through time, but he has been getting a lot of practice lately what with Steve and his more adventurous side, and wearing a rubber when fucking in public makes for an easy and quick cleanup. He gives himself a few good strokes to lube up good and nice, ensuring that Steve gets a smooth ride as he aligns himself with the hole that flutters eagerly to suck him in.

Greedy, starved, zealous, Steve sits himself on that veiny dick, ass fully flush with Billy’s hips, breathlessly gasping and cursing around his name, “Fuck Billy…”

“Mmmh,” Billy hums and licks his lips, staring down with adoration at how he’s buried deep inside of Steve’s ass, tight with lack of preparation, but- “You feel so good baby, taking my cock so well.”

He brings his hands to grab Steve by the hips and guide him in a circular motion, muscles clenching around him that can only be described as beautiful, eliciting groans and causing him to dig in his nails.

Steve’s panting, bangs sticking to his forehead from sweat, the windows fogged up, telling anyone that would walk by exactly what was going on, and when he lifts up to fuck himself on Billy’s fat erection, they shake the entire car with his fervor; each time he sinks down he moans more; moans with less and less self control.

“Take off your shirt, pretty boy,” Billy drawls out and swipes his tongue across shiny and sharp teeth. “Wanna see you.”

It’s a hurried motion that takes less than three seconds for Steve to yank off the crop top and grab on to Billy’s knees again, refusing to wait even one moment in the haze of his neediness. 

Billy, however, faced with marks of his own making, takes time to appreciate how perfectly purple suits Steve’s pale skin, blooming across his pecs, his tits, near nipples that strut now, begging to be touched. And who is he not to oblige. Hands travel up from hips, past the waist, to Steve’s chest - the brunette seemingly lost in chasing his own high, that he doesn’t notice where Billy is going till he presses hard against the sensitive buds.

“A-ah! Fuck, Billy!” And he throws his head back.

Steve’s entire body tenses at that, each muscle flexing and twitching, contracting around Billy’s steely cock, and he can’t help himself but to thrust into the clenching hole, the rim taking a chokehold on the base of his prick. Steve has to bring up a hand against the roof of the car to keep himself from hitting his head, while also giving him the ideal leverage to push down hard, bodies colliding, skin slapping together in a lascivious and erotic rhythm.

“God, you’re such a little slut for my cock, huh baby?” Billy growls like a ravenous wolf as he pounds into Steve, forcing out every little cry and moan, telling him that he’s hitting just the right spot.

“Billy- Billy, ah-a, fuck- fuck-” Steve whimpers and looks down to watch one hand on his hip that pulls him down, another rubbing hard against his nipple. 

“Yeah, harrh, listen to yourself,” and Billy pauses to listen to how Steve mewls, revelling in the fact that he’s the cause of that. “So loud and lewd, baby, calling out my name like that.”

“Billy.”

He’s a confident guy, Keg King and lady killer, and while shit like emotions and feelings stuns him, this brings him alive, lust coiling in his gut, burning hot and white, ramping up to a fever pitch as he fucks with wild abandon into Steve’s wet cunt.

Billy hasn’t bothered masturbating in a good while, no, he saves all of that pent up energy for Steve, to fill him up; desire blinding him to anyone else but his princess.

“Mmhnn- ahh, fuck, Stevie, can’t wait to get you alone tonight,” he says, voice fucked out and perverted, Steve looking at him as he speaks, “Drop off all the little shits and then fuck you into your mattress till you’re a mess, pump you full of my cum.”

Steve’s eyes screws shut tight, mouth wide open as he moans, “Yes, oh God, Billy-”

“Yeah? You want that?”

“Yes! Please! Fuck-” He nods the best he can, hair bouncing.

“You’re such a good little whore for me, princess, so needy for my cock.”

“Billy- Billy please,” Steve croons, all pathetic and close.

“Anything,” Billy responds with fast devotion, a promise that he gladly lives up to, knowing well what it is Steve is begging for, wants to hear him say it anyways.

“Touch me, please, ah-h- I’m so so close, fuck…”

Billy grins wide, so self satisfied it’s nearly disgusting, and he closes his fingers firm around Steve’s slick erection; he gets so fucking wet, leaking profusely, swears it only happens when he’s with Billy like this.

“Just like that, yes! Oh fuck, I’m- ah-”

“Yeah, cum for me baby, wanna watch you- show me what I do to you.”

Billy jerks him off quick and crude, knows how Steve likes it, how he needs it; loves being manhandled, talks about that whenever he’s with Billy he feels small and light.

And Steve cums with a loud and unadulterated moan, stilling his entire body in a tense pose as Billy fucks him fast; slamming quickly against his prostate, hand milking him good till he’s emptied out on his own chest.

It is a glorious thing to watch, a masterpiece of performance only for him, a grand show for a one man audience that Billy gets to relive again and again and again. Steve’s jaw drops as he continues to cry out like he’s a goddamn porn star, overstimulated and loving it.

Billy’s own orgasm is far less showy; a few shallow, brutish thrusts, grunting through gritted teeth, he shoves Steve down onto him hard as his hips stutter through completion, waves of impossible heat pouring out and leaving him a puddle of bliss and euphoria.

Time is lost to them, as they sit like that; Steve’s one leg having fallen between the seats as he went limp with exhaustion, still firmly planted in Billy’s lap, who’s soft and complacent and fucking tired, both of them breathing heavy.

“We should… we should go back…” Steve mumbles with closed eyes.

Billy’s watching the way Steve’s cum slowly slips down his chest, running over his abs and nearing his pubic hair.

“Do we have to?” he eventually manages to ask.

And Steve chuckles at that, the vibrations through his body clenching around Billy’s spent cock and he can’t help the sore “ooh”s and “ahh”s as he tries to pull away from it.

“Sadly we do. Can’t have the kids walk home alone in the dark, besides…” Steve grinds his ass onto Billy’s lap, making him wince in not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but definitely too much. “Think you promised to… fuck me into my mattress?”

[joelmillerthirstqz]

From this prompt: Joel meets y/n and he makes it his MISSION to fuck her. Throw in a daddy kink if you’re brave

(I did, with ten thousand character-intensive caveats. Porn with obligatory plot, is there a tag for that? Anyway have some suspiciously assertive Joel)

---

Joel moves throughout the rooms of his house, picking up one occupation after the next, bored around one in the afternoon and faced with the reality that he neither remembers nor knows what to do with actual free time, safety, and space of his own. Tommy and Maria had brought some kind approximations of traditional housewarming, but much of his home was furnished by the previous resident and he sat there overwhelmed by spatial possibility. For all his griping about Ellie’s perpetual stream-of-consciousness chattering, the silence roared in his ears like he’d been dragged downstream.

Do people just go drink now? Just talk to each someone to pass the time? he thinks to himself, frustrated. By the time he could legally go to a bar, he’d been twenty-one and Sarah had been three, her mom long gone. He hadn’t spent time alone since the outbreak—always Tommy or Tess and others in between nearby. Acute problems to solve, no time for chronic reflection.

Tommy brought a lone box of possessions from his apartment with a case of cheap beer the night Sarah’s mom left, hanging around more tangibly than any other family had and often taking Sarah to school once Sarah was old enough. Tommy joked that it was more like Joel having two kids to deal with; Joel ribbed him for perpetually flirting with the very clearly married moms of his niece’s classmates.

Joel gulps a breath, self-flagellating with the idea that he hadn’t been able to protect Sarah when Tommy and Maria so clearly deserved to have their own child, forgetting as ever that his brother executed the soldier that shot Sarah before he could get to Joel—without a blink.

Wonderful. That’s what you do alone with your thoughts for two seconds. Jesus, Joel, he grumbles inwardly.

He’d been dragged to so many damn things since settling in Jackson and didn’t know what to do when it was his choice, so he looks outside. If Ellie’s light is on, he’ll go awkwardly try to make conversation, see if she’s okay. If she’ll be caught in a forgiving mood; if not, if he’s really pushing it.

Joel’s boots thud softly on the flagstone they’d carefully laid together, a path for her to get up to the house without soaking her sneakers through. Tonight, though, she’s gone or playing dead, so he sighs and shrugs a coat on, headed for the Tipsy Bison.

————

Joel spent a nontrivial amount of his time lately fending off interested parties in Jackson.

It was just cuffing season, he dismissed—encroaching fall making people a little weird. Since he’d begun to settle in, slowly accustoming himself to having Ellie out of his sight often and a normal couch in a house without shattered windows, he’d slowly accepted more public interactions. He’d grudgingly shoulder into town meetings, quiet until Tommy or someone else would put a question to him like he had a fucking clue.

Joel went on patrol, helping some of the greener residents learn to keep themselves safe. Unfortunately, it meant more people caught sight of him. Joel was used to prowling through quarantine zones swollen with cowering masses plainly terrified of him, which left him minimally prepared for reactions he thought he’d stopped evoking long ago.

The people whose breath hitch when they first notice him, the longing stares when he’d finally break and smile or laugh—they’d gotten embarrassing enough for him to avoid certain places.

Whenever Joel seems like he’s about to not comply with her wishes, Maria frequently threatens to tell the women who ask her in lewd tones if Tommy has a brother the truth—he does, and how about I introduce you?

The truth was he didn’t feel capable of starting anything with someone who’d ask where he’d been. Joel didn’t want to remember, even if he’d finally pinned the picture of himself with Sarah at a soccer game up next to the blooming collection of pictures in his living room with Ellie, Polaroids in Jackson blooming over nearby wall space every few weeks. People who wanted honesty to go with their peaceful existence reminded him too much of Tommy’s near-fatal optimism, and he felt like it would be too dishonest to start anything with anyone who still lost sleep over distasteful things done to survive. Delightful first-date baggage, in his estimation.

At the Tipsy Bison, he edges in by the drinking patrol nearest the door, welcomed gruffly and responding the same. It was nice to be recognized without raw fear or calculation as he entered, and Joel warms enough to drop his coat over the back of his chair, his rust-colored flannel’s buttons parting over the shirt beneath it as he moves, listening to Eugene tell some inflated war story with an almost-cold beer.

“Alright, fuck this. Knuckle up, asshole, I’m not doing this on patrol tomorrow,” Joel’s ears perk up at the sound of your chair clattering backwards as you stand. Joel recognizes you from the newer batch of arrivals, clearly deemed capable enough to join an early patrol just days after your arrival.

“Jesus, settle the fuck down,” one of the younger patrolmen grouses, standing up. Alex. Oh, the dumb kid.

“Nope. Now or never,” you insist.

“Listen, I’m not hitting you,” he sounds unapologetic but tries to portray himself as the reasonable party. He’s wiry, and Joel’s seen him fend for himself, but his posture doesn’t belie cool confidence.

“You clearly have some doubts, so let’s get into it,” you urge, agitated beyond belief. He’d been needling you about perceived skill, something about not growing up having to field dress animals, and you’d fucking had it. He was going to make a point on patrol and get someone hurt, and you were not carrying bodies back into Jackson because of some ego or misplaced crush.

He taps your shoulder mockingly with a closed fist, a gentle little motion, trying to smile playfully.

You hook him across the jaw, staggering him before taking a knee to his stomach as he tries to right himself.

“More, or you’re finished?” you ask.

Joel fully sits up in his chair. He hasn’t seen anything like this in Jackson. Glancing over both shoulders for his brother, Maria, and finding a clear coast he watches the outcome with interest, sipping his beer with an upturned mouth.

You’re cute, or appealing, or some reflexive word Joel hadn’t used in years, pushing hair out of your eyes as you regain your center.

Alex tries to sweep your legs out, successfully swiping one and getting a knee to the diaphragm for it as you land.

“Okay, fuck, I’m done,” he grunts and you rise easily, offering him a hand.

“Good,” you mumble, letting go the second he’s righted. You look around a little chastened by all the eyes on you, deciding to forego another round.

“I’m going to bed before we do this again,” you nod at Alex, and the rest of the patrol group you recognize in turn.

Joel eyes you as you depart, beer polished off and goodbyes waved, coat gripped in his fist to be flung on once outside. He knows your name, had seen you near the stables and conversing with the patrols. Hearing you speak, despite the context, maybe because of it, let him confirm something he’d been suspecting when he caught glimpses of you before. Never having had the right circumstances or raw spare time to devote all his energy to taking someone to bed, he steels himself to confirm it.

He trots after you, tugging his jacket back on and finding his way to the four-story hotel the town had spent arduous time clearing, stripping of spores, and making hospitable enough for people new to Jackson. Joel ended up leading a lot of the effort himself, vaguely proud to be doing something other than dismantling things, stretching old skills. Your little corner balcony faces off of one side, a nice view of the town unfolding as people begin to switch lights on for a sooner-than-yesterday sundown. You’re appreciative of a strange little luxury—not sure when the last time you stood with your back to a door without anticipating some infected would burst through.

You lean your elbows on the railing, a flask of whisky tipping in your fingers as you watch Jackson light up, a lone figure’s long strides coming into view down the broad street. The night is cool against your skin, but the little shiver the breeze causes feels affirming.

You’d always loved the fall, and Jackson’s soft sounds of life feel unreal enough that you could never sit here just sobering up before bed. It would leave you too wired, buzzing with the anxiety of certain impermanence. Reconciling this liminal zone with the gnashing horror just beyond it wasn’t something you’d take on without help. If Jackson was only a passing reprieve, you had to make yourself calm enough to enjoy it.

Joel halts below where you’re standing, hands on his hips pulling his jacket open as he looks up at you.

You’re instantly sheepish—you’d guessed in whatever patrol hierarchy there was, he was rather important. And you’d just visibly beaten someone down.

“Alex okay?” you call.

“He’ll be peachy. Not here for that,” Joel retorts, low drawl pleasant.

“Well,” you shrug, gesturing to the two mismatched chairs on the balcony with your flask. “Allow me to be a gracious host.”

He smiles and looks down for a moment. Even a couple of stories above him, you can see his height, start to assess his proportions because you’re too tipsy to be a human fucking being about your first interactions in a good place. You quickly add up a sum: his legs are long, shoulders broad, hair long enough to tug on. His frame suggests complete capability and you have a dire need to test it.

Aw, fuck.

“Y’know, I’ve got real glasses for drinking that,” Joel insinuates before he can tell himself to shut the fuck up, or to stop harassing newcomers, or any other sensible thought.

“Fair enough,” you call, closing your flask and holding a finger up to signal that he should wait.

When you arrive downstairs, boots poorly laced and denim jacket barely enough for the chill, Joel’s leaning on the veranda of the whole structure. You suppose its fair to gawk in appreciation so you do, assuring yourself you could have chosen not to.

“Look, I’m not going to ask what this is, and you won’t ask why I’m saying yes, okay?” you say softly when you’re a couple of feet from him.

Joel raises his eyebrows, feeling untethered. Some corner of him expected to humiliate himself to death so he could go home and fall asleep barely after dark, anything to shut himself up until he was occupied again. His heart speeds a little at your reply, hand on the back of his neck as he pushes back onto both feet.

“I’m close,” Joel offers, hand down towards the street, fists quickly in his own pockets. You pull your bottom lip inward, looking at his profile, wanting to hear it again, lower, helpless.

You pass the walk in tense but not unpleasant silence, glancing at each other until you reach his porch and he edges in to unlock his door.

Turning on lights as you toe off your boots and follow him inside, you watch how he moves, past the need for any type of persuasion. He returns from the kitchen with two matching, unchipped short glasses and a cylindrical glass of amber liquid.

“Trade?” Joel asks setting the bottle down and closing an open window. Your mouth quirks.

“That’s a nice custom. It a Jackson thing?” you ask, tipping your flask into his glass as he returns and pours from the bottle for you.

He laughs, sharp hazel eyes jumping up to you and back down, hand running over his beard.

“Not sure. What else would you do?”

You drop onto one of the two couches, arranged in the way that says people actually spend time here together. Joel gets onto his knees to build a fire, definitely a necessity, though kind of needlessly sweet for the occasion.

“This?” you tease, gesturing between the two of you. Joel joins you on the same couch, heat radiating into the space around you, well before the spark in the fireplace could catch enough to reach you.

You take stock of each other in comfortable silence, and a slow grin moves from one side of your face to the other. You finish your drink with a tinge of shyness, setting it down as he does the same.

You have no warning before his mouth is on yours, hands on either side of your face. It’s achingly good to be kissed with complete attention, luxury of time changing the entire tenor of kissing another person. You’re grounded to who’s holding you, mouth accepting him as Joel leads, guiding your jaw where he wants it with the flat of his palm. Joel moves slowly, plenty of time for you to reciprocate his motions though you begin to shift closer, scant sense of rhythm keeping you from straddling his hips.

The taste of him and your anticipatory haze keeps you fixed on the kiss, his hands sliding lower and beginning to move you towards his lap.

You try not to break the kiss with a smile, but it happens anyway and he looks up curiously. You sit back on your heels and tear through the buttons of your jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch and stroking fingernails through his beard before beginning the kiss again. Joel tugs you closer by the hip, urging you into his lap. He scans your face intensely, pulling you fully against him and letting his hands run the expanse of your back.

You can feel how rough his hands are through your shirt, so your fingers fly to his to work the buttons of his flannel.

“Christ,” you roll your eyes, exposing a second shirt underneath. He chuckles warmly in his chest, your foreheads bowed together a moment.

“C’mon,” Joel mutters, broad hands under each of your thighs as he rises with you wrapped around him. A segment somewhere in your brain shimmers, clicking with the novel experience, a knockout strike in the lane of neurons igniting to remember their roles.

“Where’s c’mon?” you ask incoherently between kisses, moving your mouth to his neck so he can answer. You think regretfully that it’s probably substantially warmer down here, fire catching nicely.

“Upstair—” Joel cuts off, your teeth nipping his pulse point.

You feel his heart jump against your mouth and your chest at once. You kiss him slowly as he takes you upstairs, stopping halfway up. He pushes you against the banister and deepens the kiss, hard length made clear. Shifting you closer to his waist once you resume, Joel’s hands creep a little higher, fingertips edging up as they dig in.

As you reach his bedroom, you have one hand hooked in the bottom seam of his shirt, ready to pull it off as he tries to set you down. Joel grunts when you tangle his broad shoulders in it, getting free and discarding it agilely. He bears down on you under dark lashes, chest rising and falling noticeably. The chill upstairs dissolves quickly as you twine together, hands running over his chest. It’s impressively broad and defined, thickening line of hair leading into his jeans.

You strip out of your two shirt layers with a casual roll of your upper body. Joel’s rapt eyes dragging over every rib leave you feeling exposed until his hands cover your breasts, mouth on your neck. You try to tug the rest of him towards the bed by the belt loops, but get frustrated and try to unclasp his belt instead.

Joel stoops to claw quickly at his boots, both thrown one handed before coming to rest against the wall. He hasn’t taken his eyes from you as you rise to slip your jeans down, one hand already curled back around your waist. He spreads his other hand across your abdomen, callused fingertips making you shudder appreciatively. Shoving you back, Joel gets to his knees with one of your legs hooked over his shoulder, grasped in his palm, kissing down your thigh. His free hand still moves over the rest of you.

Your mind is blankly focused on the rasp of his beard inside your legs. If you were honest, head wasn’t a frequent priority after the outbreak, sex usually a time-sensitive stress fix—for everyone. Add to that the average skill of the college peers you’d fucked before and, well, you’d only ever mildly enjoyed it.

Joel sucks your clit into his mouth, hard, and you arc off the bed. He moves without an ounce of uncertainty, shifting and roughly positioning you for the best angle as he goes. Being pursued like this, by a person who squarely checks boxes you didn’t know were empty left you wet enough to take him the moment you’d been out of your pants. His tongue pushes inside of you, followed quickly by one finger and then another, static but wonderful. You writhe on the bed at the feeling, low hum of a chuckle skittering across your sensitive skin.

One hand in the sheets, your other makes it into his hair. You grind against him without being able to help it, riding the stretch of his fingers as his tongue laves forceful circles around your clit.

“Fuck,” you try to grit out, embarrassed by the disassembled breathiness of your voice. It’s more a sigh as he curls his fingers within you, hazel flicking up to watch your reaction. You paw at his shoulders blindly, wanting him closer, wanting to fuck him, trying to pull back from him to tell him. He’s deadset in his focus, teeth softly grazing you in reply to your attempt.

“Can you just—” Joel grumbles, rising,“—be good for one goddamned second—” he yanks you towards him by your ankle.

“This where you want me to tell you to make me?” you tease, sitting up in his lap and wrenching him closer with your legs.

He huffs a small laugh, making to kiss you, but you hold him back.

“I want you to make me, okay?” You say seriously, grasping the hair at his nape to emphasize it.

Joel leans forward, biting your lip with care.

“Alright,” he confirms, hands around your jaw. You taste yourself on him, and a near-growl ripples through him, evident through his chest pressed against yours.

You duck away from his kiss, not caring to get his jeans off before getting a hand around his cock, your mouth enclosing the tip before you can register how much there is to take.

“Christ,” he breathes, eyes shut, face turned towards the ceiling. As your hand becomes slick enough to work over his shaft, his hands stabilize in your hair, bunching. You feel him flex in your mouth as he parts his lips and tugs on your hair, hauling you up level with his face.

“You don’t get to end it now,” Joel smiles, mouth almost against yours. You smile at the rough motion, hot interest skipping down your spine. His opposite hand is running over your chin while he composes himself, far closer than he’d wanted to be at this point.

You bite his fingers, pulling two deftly in to suck and keeping his gaze. His pupils darken and you feel a surge of pride at the same time as you feel him shove you back onto the bed, tearing his jeans off and finally joining you. Joel covers you, kissing you roughly and pulling your thighs around his hips, on his knees. He sheathes inside you without resistance, groaning and bowing his head at first. Even ready, he stretches you noticeably and you gasp at his first experimental thrusts, dragging your hips up to his each time.

You rise up to meet him, nails dug into his shoulders for traction, meeting his thrusts.

Joel hisses more in chastisement than discomfort at it, smacking your ass curiously.

“You know I’m not delicate,” you say close to his ear, snapping the lobe between your teeth unnecessarily hard.

“Shit, ow—” he grumbles, smacking you harder. You moan at the feeling, spread over his lap and trawling nails down his back. You tug where you’ve latched on, moving lower and biting his neck. He does it again, rolling his hips as you clench down on him. You scrape your teeth over his shoulder. Joel hits you again, force of it stinging how you’d hoped.

You provoke him to continue, pulling his hair, hard, and biting the skin over his collarbone.

Joel fists your hair and tugs back hard, exposing your throat to him even as you keep riding him, spanking you with almost musical timing. You almost draw blood scratching your nails out of his hair to the nape of his neck, grinning from your forced angle as he pants under you.

Joel leans forward and nips carefully over your larynx, clamping down hard on tendons just next to it. It’s a brash spot to suck a bruise into, and even the less visible parts of your body would surely be screaming on patrol in the morning.

You cry out, nerves and instinctive reaction to teeth near your neck making your heart and your cunt clench.

Joel flips you without effort, pressing a palm against your lower back to shove you into the mattress. You feel him strike your ass, once, twice, three times, and then his fingers are at your entrance, coaxing your hips to tilt up. He brushes his knuckles against you, leaning over to breathe into your ear.

“Here?”

“What did I just say?” You retort, appreciative of his caution but entirely sold on the possibility that walking will hurt tomorrow.

Joel doesn’t reply but you can see him roll his eyes from the corner of yours as he swats your cunt, hard, sensation shattering across your skin. You moan and he takes the initiative to do it again. Your shoulder blades pinch together around his hand, veering up with it. You turn your face entirely into the bed, muffling moans and faux-objections as he works, tenderness rising to the surface of your skin.

You feel Joel’s hands harshly grasp handfuls of your ass the second before he thrusts into you again, the force pinning you to the bed. He fucks you hard for long minutes, sweat building between you enough to make his hands slip. Joel’s forearm slides around your front and pulls you back against his chest.

You immediately claw at his arm, grateful to anchor yourself to him directly, pushing your hips down against his as he falls back to a gentler pace. His mouth reaches your shoulder and your hand flies to his hair again, straining to kiss him. Maybe it was weird to seek him like that—could still be a fantastic, unattached fuck—but Joel kisses you with this unerring focus that already makes you hope it will happen again.

“Takin’ me perfectly,” he drawls, some enunciation falling away with his blood coursing like this. You want to keep hearing him, so you nod and resume kissing him.

“More delicate than you thought? Need a break?” Joel taunts, and your eyes narrow as he speaks low and close, still thrusting shallowly.

“You want it hard again?” Joel teases, fingers skimming your stomach to roll your clit between them his thumb and index. It pinches and you suck in a breath, your hips floundering against his patient rhythm.

Your eyes spark and you decide to push.

“Yes, daddy,” you mock, almost sneering at him.

A dim recollection of a girl he’d briefly seen after Sarah’s mom left dusts itself off, and he reconnects dots that drifted apart from disuse after the outbreak. Joel raises his eyebrows at you and tips his head as if to say, “Well, alright then.”

You’re on your hands and knees before you can react, his hand spanning across your collarbones, bracing you against his repeated impact. Joel’s breathing becomes ragged each time he slides home, folding over you again to spill an endless wave of questions into your ear. His fingers are smoother across your clit now, drawing soaked concentric circles as you hitch.

“That’s it, baby girl,” Joel punctuates with a snap of his hips.

“You gonna come for me just like this?” Again.

“Come around my cock like a good girl?” Again, rough.

You moan, dropping to your elbows as he pounds into you, orgasm building inside of you spilling over to his fingers’ stimulation, a low groan meeting yours. You’re past words and shivering on the edge of climax when he taps your jaw.

“Focus up, c’mon,” he rumbles in your ear, demanding your attention. The pressure of his length against the tension inside of you has your vision blurring at the edges.

“Tell me,” Joel demands, pulling out halfway.

“Yes! Please, please,” you hear yourself sound panicky at the threat of losing his touch.

“Not what I asked you, baby,” he goads, nipping softly across your shoulders. His hand hasn’t stilled, and you know your eyes are rolling with the distracting pleasure of it.

“Yes, yes I will, please—”

“Tell me what,” he slips in an inch, voice shaky with thin control, fingers flexing where they meet your skin.

“Come for you, please don’t stop,” you plead, trying to shove your hips back to to meet his.

“That’s it, baby girl,” Joel murmurs and you break, quivering against his fingers and fussing with effort and relief. Your cheeks and mouth bloom red as your eyes droop with the onslaught of endorphins, still cresting as you feel Joel’s hips snap in quick succession, burying himself deep and making the best, most broken noise you could have hoped for. Even deep in your own fog, you reach for him, finding his mouth as it seeks yours again, aftershocks rolling through him.

Joel rolls onto his back, tugging you along one side. You don’t much enjoy being pinned if you weren’t also being penetrated, so the intimacy of lying there like lovers with someone you’d barely glimpsed, much less talked to, was unsettling.

Joel laughs like it’s easy for him, face lighting up with the motion, hand stroking your hair behind your ear.

“What?” You ask, propping yourself up on an elbow.

“Just surprised you said yes,” he clarifies. “I’m don’t—this isn’t a usual Wednesday for me,” he clears his throat.

You analyze his expression for a second, looking for the deceit and just finding something genuine and suspiciously shy for having nearly spanked you to orgasm minutes ago.

“You don’t accost every vulnerable newcomer and ply them with good whisky?” You prod, draping yourself over his chest, an easy negotiation of legs happening without either of you needing to acknowledge it.

“Bourbon, and, just the ones who start fistfights, really,” he teases, hands drifting over you, hungry warmth reaching his eyes as the afterglow begins to recede.

“Come downstairs?” Joel asks, like you weren’t tangled up in his bedsheets, surrounded and willingly captive to whatever he wanted.

“That was the original plan,” you protest, peering around for his shirt and slipping into it.

He smirks and kisses the tip of your nose, pausing and tipping your chin up to kiss you properly.

God damn it, you think. Oh, god damn it.

[new-endings]

The Nice and Accurate Guide to Courting 

Ao3; 1/2/3/4/5/6/7

Step 7: (MIs)Communication is Key // Holy Water and Hellfire Pt. 1

Chapter Summary: In which Aziraphale ponders his own feelings, Crowley attempts to be more direct with his flirting, obligations to one’s duty and one’s heart are brought into question, and things heat up in the plot.

Story Summary: 

As Hell’s bastard prince, Crowley is expected to wed an Archangel of Heaven’s kingdom to bring peace between the two warring nations.

It's too bad he only has eyes for his sweet, absolute bastard of a Guide, the Principality Aziraphale, who is dead-set on making sure the engagement happens.

For the sake of their kingdoms, Aziraphale leads the Prince of Hell through the long, arduous road of winning an Archangel’s favor and affections. However, Crowley would much rather use that romantic guidance to win him over instead.

When daybreak filtered through his windows, Aziraphale hardly had the will to move, let alone get up and begin his day. But he had a duty to fulfill and his own hurricane of regrets and questions be damned, he had to buck up and get right to it.

Even if his stomach did sink with its weight in lead at the very thought of approaching Crowley after what transpired last night.

No—not the—not that part of last night—the kiss! Yes, the kiss! And damn the Demon for his, his—wiles! Aziraphale knew he should have retracted that little caveat of No questions asked but—

It was too late for that now.

It wasn’t like—it hadn’t even meant anything. Of course it wouldn’t. It was—it was probably for practice, an experiment designed to gauge how comfortable an Angel would be to receive such a bold and brash show of romantic action, or something equally ridiculous. It could even be a Demonic custom of some sort.

Regardless of the root of the matter, Crowley—Crowley was a prince and princes had no business kissing Principalities when they were to be betrothed to an Archangel. It didn’t matter if Aziraphale’s heart squeezed with pinprick thorns at the thought of Crowley wedded off to one of them—powerful and beautiful as they were—it didn’t matter if he’d miss the time spent with the infuriating, wonderful Prince of Hell, didn’t matter if he’d gone and torn apart something Aziraphale had kept distant and closed, petal by petal, because…

Because none of it mattered.

He had to remember his place. He had a duty to fulfill. He can’t let his people—and Crowley—down. Whatever it was, whatever was brewing up a fuss in his mind and a storm in his heart had absolutely no place in his line of duty.

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured as he washed up. “Things will be all right. There’s no need to get all worked up.” He looked down to his hands as he wrung the towel, Crowley’s ring gleaming brilliantly on his finger. He shut his eyes and sighed. “It doesn’t mean anything at all. And this…” He held his hand to his breast, feeling the dull, achy thuds behind the cage of his ribs tick along sadly. “This will come to pass.”

There was a fracture of some kind, splintering, sharp, and searing deep within his chest, but Aziraphale kept a stiff upper lip and got about his day.

 ------

It was easy enough to forget—even for a moment—what troubles clouded Aziraphale’s mind.

After all, whenever Crowley made a spectacle of himself, it was quite difficult to think of anything else other than mitigating the damage that was sure to follow. “What in the—Crowley, what are you doing?!” Aziraphale shrilled as he dove after the—foolish, stupid, idiot!—prince right as he took a swan-dive off the cliff. Panic seized at his throat. In hindsight, at the very least, the ground levels were staggered to where even if Crowley did dive off the deep end (literally and figuratively), he would have sustained much less damage from the fall.

Of course, that didn’t stop Aziraphale from flying off after him.

“Oh, good morning, Angel!” Crowley greeted blithely, giving a short wave as though Aziraphale weren’t currently hoisting him by the waist as Principality’s wings flapped erratically to keep them aloft.

This Demon was going to end up killing him.

Aziraphale huffed, hoping that he looked more visibly annoyed than in the aftermath of absolute terror as he lowered them to the clifftops. “Again Crowley—what were you doing?” the angel demanded once both pairs of feet were set firmly on the ground.

Crowley gave a shrug—no, not his usual devil-may-care gesture whenever he wanted to annoy the absolute divinity right out of Aziraphale’s wavering patience. It was the same one he used whenever he was downright nervous about what he was going to say, whenever he wasn’t sure Aziraphale would like his answer. “Just. Practicing flying.”

The Angel, of course, was dubious of this response. There wasn’t much flying involved from where he could see. Falling, definitely. Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “I thought you said Demons couldn’t fly.”

His shoulders tensed in annoyance. “I know.” Annoyance or something else. Something like reluctance or resignation. He paused, opening his mouth and closing it. He tried again, this time actually managing to get the words out. “You said—you said the courtship flight was important.”

Aziraphale felt his heart soften. “Oh. Yes it—well it usually is, but given the circumstances, I…” He gave a swallow at the look of utter frustration on the Demon’s face. He then noticed the dirt streaking the other’s robes and the bruises on his arms from what was likely an unpleasant landing. Aziraphale winced. Just how long had Crowley been doing this?

“I can do it. I know I can. It just…it just takes some time to remember what it’s like, that’s all.” He flashed Aziraphale what he probably hoped was a confident smile, but all it did was make Aziraphale ache in sympathy.

His dear friend—he was trying so hard for this courtship to work out. Why couldn’t anyone else see his efforts?

They don’t’ deserve him something dark and quiet whispered in the crevices of his thoughts and Aziraphale tamped it down immediately. “Dear…you know…I was thinking.” 

“A dangerous occupation, Dove,” Crowley smirked and Aziraphale tried not to sputter at the moniker.

“I was thinking— that maybe Bentley could help you in this regard.” He watched as the gears turned in Crowley’s head at the idea.

“Would it be impressive enough, is what I’m wondering,” he murmured, ruminating further. He looked to Aziraphale, deliberating, searching, and…hoping? “Did she impress you, Angel?”

She terrified the living daylights out of me and to be honest, she still does. “Exceedingly so, Crowley,” Aziraphale nodded with a tight smile.  “And you two fly so—so well together too!”

Crowley flew his dragon like a madman. Had it not been for Aziraphale reprimanding Crowley nearly half the time they were on the wing together, the unruly dragon would have been satisfied with catapulting, cannonballing, and careening off in the skies all the way to Old End. Aziraphale suppressed a shudder as images of their flight resurfaced, his screams painting the night. Impressive? Yes. But perhaps not in all the right ways.

Crowley gave a brilliant smile at the memory and some of that tension eased in Aziraphale’s heart. “She’s taken a shine to you,” he added, rather unexpectedly. He almost looked proud.

Maybe even fond. “O-oh?” Ah. Right. The erm…gifts she gave him, back at the island. Aziraphale felt his stomach churn as he smiled back with a bit of force. “Well, that’s very sweet—she’s…” Unruly. Stubborn. Sadistic. Unpredictable. A thing of great terror and beauty. A true force of nature. “Very nice.”

Just like her master. “Nice?” Crowley scoffed, brushing the dust off his robes. “Not exactly the first thing one thinks of when describing a fire-breathing hellion like her, right?” He gave a wolfish grin and to Aziraphale’s utter horror, found a strange heat spreading through his cheeks.

“Well, she most certainly is nice,” the Principality defended. Probably no thanks to Crowley.

“To you, Angel.” He chuckled and while Crowley didn’t say it outright, Aziraphale was sure that he’d just been granted a rare and fine honor by the prince for somehow getting on Bentley’s good side. “You know…since you two get along so well, maybe I can show you a little something.” He moved forward, taking Aziraphale by the arm, something he’d blithely done countless time—

And yet, the action ended up wholly flustering Aziraphale.

“S-show me?” To which the Angel startled and hastily pulled away with a frantically beating heart.

Crowley paused, frowning. He looked at the distance between them and Aziraphale fought the urge to squirm under his gaze. His eyes were completely unreadable. Then, the Demon turned. “Yeah. But not here. Elsewhere.”

“Like…?” the Angel prodded, feet moving on their own to catch up.

“Over by the edge of the falls, like before. We won’t get interrupted there.” And then Crowley turned back, a sly grin on his face. “No one to hear us either.”

“Erm…” Hear what, exactly?  

“Are you coming or not, Dove?”

Aziraphale sputtered, feet reluctantly moving forward. “Y-yes, fine!”

 ----

They’d gone back to bickering—for better or for worse.

Aziraphale felt a throbbing tick of irritation and repressed the urge to stammer in embarrassment. Honestly, just what is irritation of a royal playing at? “Crowley for the last time—”

“C’mon, Angel, it’s not that bad—”

“—it’s completely ridiculous!” he cried out, arms crossed, and lips fixed to a pout.

“That’s never stopped you before!” Crowley backtracked immediately at the stone-dead stare he received in turn. “Oh, come now…” he soothed, trying to wheedle the Angel into getting his way, and getting far too close—! Crowley paused. “Something the matter, Angel?”

Aziraphale blinked, somehow a foot or four away from where he originally sat. “W-what? Oh, no! Nothing.” Aziraphale winced.

Not exactly convincing, was that?

At the very least, Crowley wasn’t calling him out on it. Because there was clearly something wrong and it had nothing to do with Crowley but had everything to do with an Angel who up and went and complicated everything from nothing. This is nothing, you foolish Principality. “It’s nothing at all.”

The prince looked concerned now. He cautiously shuffled closer, like Aziraphale were some wild animal he risked spooking with any sudden movements. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it…?”

No—no, talking is the absolute last thing Aziraphale wanted—there was nothing to talk about—! And besides…

“You said there’d be no questions asked—”

Sea-storm eyes widened. Aziraphale wanted the ground to swallow him where he stood. Or, at the very least, swallow the words he’d just up and let slip from his mouth. He turned hastily away, busying himself with calling out to the dozing dragon again, watching with failing hope for an intervention as the damned beast only lifted her head for a moment and set herself back down to bask in the afternoon sun.

Beside him, Crowley could only gape.

It could have been disgust that the Angel was feeling. It could be that Crowley had doomed them utterly and irrevocably by not only crossing the line, but dashing right past it and hurtling the Angel right along with him into unknown territory. But Aziraphale’s nervous, flustering couldn’t be explained by repulsion and reluctance.

He’d spent a long time watching his Angel. He knew nearly every flash of emotion that painted itself across his face. Knew every sigh of annoyance, tick of irritation, beam of happiness, downcast of guilt, and tight-lipped smile of dread and disappointment. And this—this blushing, antsy, and squirming mess his Angel had become—simply did not radiate rejection at Crowley’s presence.

A strange, dizzying hope captivated, enthralled him. It rooted and bloomed in his chest as Aziraphale vehemently refused to look at him, but even the afternoon sun did little to hide the rosy tint that spread across his cheeks. Crowley’s heart thudded, raced, and ached. Did the kiss work? Did he finally get his Angel to think of him as more than a burden, an obligation?

A friend?

“I-I mean, no, there’s absolutely nothing to talk about!” his Angel added hurriedly when Bentley provided absolutely zero aid to the situation.

His angel was still proving to be stubborn. Of course, Crowley knew this would arise, knew that his Angel, his sweet, loyal Aziraphale, was sworn to his duty. Maybe even to the point of foregoing his own heart—but no, Crowley couldn’t give up now. Not when he’d come so far, not when his plan could free them both from this rotten fate.

The prince licked his lips, tingling at the memory of the lovely time they had the night before. I still have another favor, he realized. Maybe if he demanded the truth, Aziraphale would have nowhere to run off to and hide. He’d reveal his heart and Crowley would gladly offer his in return. It could certainly save him all the grief and give them what they both want and Crowley—

Crowley wanted answers.

But as a Demon…he knew full well the dangers of asking questions. No, he won’t risk it. If he were to outright ask, Aziraphale might even deny his own heart out of responsibility and loyalty to his cause. It would be better to gauge Aziraphale’s reactions through more direct methods of courting. He’d been too subtle— at least to his oblivious bird. He decided then: if Aziraphale refused to speak his mind, maybe his body would be far more honest.

Crowley also needed to consider that he needed that request for his plans. Playing Demon’s advocate, however, if he successfully wooed his Angel, that alone might be enough to convince him.

Decisions, decisions.

Crowley wordlessly called out to his stubborn dragon. Bentley lazily groused as she lumbered over to them, giving a nuzzle to an alarmed Aziraphale just because she loved his reactions so much. The prince let out a laugh, finding bittersweet irony that his own dragon knew his heart sooner than the Angel he had every intention of giving it to. He reached over to pet her snout, accidentally leaning a little too close to Aziraphale who sat between them. From the corner of his vision, he watched as Aziraphale deliciously reddened at their proximity.

Crowley bit back a smile. “If you’re sure, Angel.”

His request could wait. Besides, Crowley was fairly sure he knew what all this flustering meant.

“Of course I’m sure!” Aziraphale (somehow) managed to get out without stammering.

He’s sure that all this flustering meant that Aziraphale wanted him.

Crowley chuckled. “Whatever you say, Dove,” snickering as Aziraphale valiantly again tried to hide his blush from view.

Just as I’m sure you’ve stumbled, love, I’m sure you’ll fall for me soon.

 -----

Aziraphale didn’t know how much more he could take.

Crowley had suggested they break for lunch not too long afterwards and from there, it all went downhill. The prince escorted them to the carriage, taking his hand as he stepped inside, and sitting far too close beside him. Every jolt from the uneven paths sent Crowley pressing up against him, arm to arm, thigh to thigh, though he seemed to take no mind whatsoever. Sure, Crowley had taken to draping himself over his Guide from time to time, especially after long, tiring nights, but it was barely midday! And each time Aziraphale tried to put some distance between them, Crowley would follow suit until the Guide was sandwiched between the Prince and the solid walls of the coach.

Lunch didn’t fare any better as Aziraphale nearly swallowed a spoon when Crowley offered to feed him. It absolutely did not help as when he began choking, Crowley announced, Not to worry, Angel, I know mouth-to-mouth!

After that fiasco, during which a confused waiter had to pry the prince off him, they ended up splitting dessert. Aziraphale brightened at that, always excited to have his friend try the rich delicacies of the kingdom. However, just as he’d began explaining the intricate process of tempering the chocolate to create the smooth, rich, and creamy texture, Crowley used that opportunity to take a bite of cake right off the Angel’s fork.

It’s good, he said, licking his lips. I’ll have more.

Aziraphale didn’t know how he ended up feeding Crowley the rest of the Black Forest gateau, or why he didn’t ask Crowley to use his own silverware, but the Angel could find no sound reason other than the blood rushing to his head clouding his concentration and judgment.

During the ride back, Crowley claimed he wanted an afternoon doze and spent the journey back to the castle grounds with an arm over his Guide and burrowing his head at the curve of Aziraphale’s neck. Which, again, wasn’t exactly too unusual for the pair. At least, that was the mantra Aziraphale had been repeating for the entire duration of the ride, all the while praying that the heat of his blush didn’t scrawl down his neck where Crowley could feel it.  

And to make matter worse, Crowley nearly took a stumble out of the carriage when they’d arrived, needing Aziraphale to keep him upright and support him as they walked back to the grounds as his “foot fell asleep.”

And now…Aziraphale found himself in this predicament:

“W-what’s gotten into you!” the Angel sputtered, adorably red-faced with his brows furrowed. “Did you take a tumble to the head? Oh, good Lord you actually did smash your head on a rock, didn’t you?”

Crowley chuckled, shrugging as though he hadn’t just crowded Aziraphale up against the tower’s walls with the excuse of tripping and needing to someone to steady him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Angel.”

Those pouty lips set themselves to a frown. “You’ve been—clumsier.” And handsy. “Have you lost all depth perception?” Aziraphale fought the urge to blush and mostly succeeded when Crowley did nothing more than grin at him, handsome face illuminated by the rosy sunset behind him. Still, it wasn’t hard to suppress and repress—not when guilt was nipping at his heels.

Crowley was quiet for a long while. Then, finally, “Are all angels this oblivious?” He peered down at Aziraphale, eyes dark and pupils blown wide. Heat pooled at Aziraphale’s belly and he squirmed under the prince’s gaze. “Or did I just get lucky?”

Aziraphale’s heart leapt to his throat but it came crashing down within an instant. “O-oh.” No, no…it can’t—that can’t possibly be what Crowley meant. He’s just—using you for practice, you pathetic thing! “Crowley, erm…” Aziraphale swallowed; the truth was always such a bitter, bitter thing to. “My dear, I don’t think that approach would be wise to u-use on an Archangel.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “They tend to dislike—”

“I’m not asking about what they like, Angel.” Crowley pressed closer, this time backing up him up flat against the cool stone walls. “I’m asking you,” he murmured, hand cupping Aziraphale’s cheek and forcing him to meet the prince’s burning gaze. “Do you like it?” Aziraphale swallowed down the humiliating noise that threatened to escape his mouth. “Do you like it when I’m this close to you?” The Angel felt the very tips of his ears burn; emboldened by the reaction, Crowley leaned down, a breath’s width away from Aziraphale’s own lips, eager, hungry, to take another kiss. “Or do you want me to be…closer?”

Aziraphale gasped, almost—almost forgetting himself. “C-Crowley!” He can’t—the prince was taking this too far, We can’t possibly…he can’t actually mean—

Crowley gripped him by the arm, just as he’d began to scarper away. “Don’t run away from me, Aziraphale.” Something in his voice, dark, demanding, and maybe even a bit desperate, set a shiver down the Angel’s spine. Crowley leaned in, whispering with the faintest hint of temptation and promise in his words: “Believe me, Dove. I won’t let you get very far.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Ice encased Aziraphale’s heart as he wrenched away, a cold sliver of fear dropping to the pit of his belly. “No—!”

“Yesss,” Crowley hissed out as he stepped away from his Guide. “What do you want, Ligur?”  

The footman bowed deep and low, exaggerated and mocking. “Prince Crawley…” He made his way to them from where he lurked by the shadows of the overhanging gate. “A message from the King,” he announced, handing over a heavy scroll engraved with the royal crest.

Crowley eyed it with disinterest. “I’ll see to it soon enough,” he said, waving him off. “As you were.” The prince ignored the sharp gasp from his Angel and his own nauseating dread. It wouldn’t do to show weakness. Not now. Not when he’d foolishly put them both in danger.

“Of course, my liege,” the Demon drawled, giving yet another mocking bow as he slipped away, back into the shadows.

Aziraphale tried to calm his fluttering heart. No, this wasn’t good—they had the wrong idea, it wasn’t—this wasn’t— He turned to Crowley and noted with concern that he was…trembling. His eyes were hard and unreadable, seeming at a loss for words. “This matter seems…urgent,” Aziraphale said softly. He reached out, soothing his shoulder and startling Crowley from his spell. “Maybe you should—”

Crowley took his hand in his, squeezing them tightly, beseechingly, reassuringly. “Meet me at the third alternative rendezvous point come moonrise.” He pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s palm, where his own ring and crest glittered under the dying beams of the sun.

He then drew away, leaving the Guide in a daze with his heart in his throat. “Wait, Crowley!” The prince stilled as Aziraphale clutched the sleeves of his robes. He looked back at Aziraphale, hopeful and waiting. But all Aziraphale could muster out was, “Is that one the park fountain or the clocktower?”

Crowley groaned, rolling his eyes so hard, his entire head rolled with them. “The clocktower!”

-----

That all went down like a lead balloon.

The Demon paced about, eyeing the rafters and stairs for any signs of movement, anything out of place that would indicate prying eyes and ears. He silently cursed himself as the day’s light faded, leaving nothing but the malicious dark, the perilous unknown. Crowley had no one to blame but himself. He’d gotten complacent when he should have been on his guard—what was he doing, being so rash out in the open, on castle grounds no less? He cursed himself for believing the quiet weeks had meant reprieve; cursed himself for thinking they had more time.

Harried steps came from the stairs and Crowley swiveled around, some of the tension easing when his Guide’s familiar head poked through the entryway.

Catching sight of him, the Angel breathed a sigh of relief. “Crowley…” He made his way over, the anxiety in his eyes deepening as he took in the prince’s frazzled appearance. “What’s happened, dear?”

“Angel, I…” This was it. “There isn’t much time.” This was now or never. “I’m sorry Angel, I’m so sorry, this isn’t your fault—”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale reached over, soothing his arm. “Did they reprimand you?” He sighed, deep and wounded. “They have to understand that courting—courting takes time! And, blast it, the Archangels should be pulling their weight on this too! A marriage takes compromise and collaboration, and—”

Crowley felt his heart swell for this sweet, sympathetic bird. Too kind, too naïve—Crowley had to get them out of this mess before they targeted his Guide next. “It’s all right, it’s all right. Forget the engagement.” He hushed him before the sputtering and protests started. “Angel…I have a plan.” Crowley reached into his coat pocket and fished out a parchment. “In case the walls have ears,” he murmured. “You still owe me, remember?”

Hesitantly, with questioning eyes, Aziraphale took it and unfolded it. “Walls have—what?” He peered down at the single word and racked his brain trying to make sense of it.

Maps

Aziraphale shook his head. “What do you mean…” When had they discussed anything relating to cartography? He had a small collection, somewhere within the organized chaos of his quarters, but nothing too noteworthy. Well, other than those maps he had err borrowed from the old cartographer. In fact, he might have mentioned them to Crowley during that rainy night in Old End—

The maps to The Other Side.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as the meaning sank in, making him shudder violently at the realization. “Crowley!” He searched the other’s eyes for an explanation—anything other than the horrifying conclusion Aziraphale came to. But Crowley only stared steadily back, grim and somber. He shook his head. “You can’t—”

“Angel—” he started, moving closer when all Aziraphale wanted was to gather as much distance between them as possible. “With those maps, we can make it out of here, you and me—”

That was what he wanted? In the end, that’s what Crowley was asking?

To escape?

Another realization struck him, nearly knocking Aziraphale clean off his feet as he came to a sickening understanding. Of Crowley’s behavior, of Crowley’s courting— he hadn’t been trying out another method to woo an Archangel when he’d kissed Aziraphale that night—

No…he’d been trying to deceive Aziraphale, making the Principality play into the palm of his hand.

All to give him what he wanted. “Was this what it was all about?” Aziraphale demanded. Anger. Humiliation. Both burned and boiled under Aziraphale’s skin until they consumed themselves, leaving only the cold ashes of nausea at the pit of his stomach and a searing hurt in his chest. “You were just trying to get ahold of my maps?”

Crowley shook his head, stepping towards him, trying to cross the space between them. “The maps are necessary, obviously, but—”

“No, they aren’t—not unless you plan on…on giving up!” Sea-storm eyes glared back at him, challenging Crowley to tell him otherwise, that he wasn’t just abandoning everything they’ve worked for. Everything Aziraphale had worked for. But he was met with silence once more, and Aziraphale felt himself drown in despair and disbelief. “That’s what you’re doing, aren’t you? Crowley, how could you…”

I thought…I thought we were on the same side…were you plotting this escape this entire time?

Aziraphale felt hot, angry tears well up at the corner of his eyes. “How could you turn your back on everything? On everyone?”

Including me?

Crowley wanted to scream in frustration. No, no, this wasn’t going according to plan—his Angels’ got it all wrong, it’s not like that, it’s not— “Would you just listen to me?!”

It’s exactly like that. Aziraphale, his Aziraphale turned away, shaking his head softly. “I’m done listening, Crowley.” He squeezed his eyes tight, shuddering out a breath. “I can’t give you those maps.”

Crowley felt hollow. Like everything—faith, love, agony, and regret spilt out of his very corporation, left to rot and fester on the ground between them. All that was left was a roiling resentment. “Can’t or won’t?” he bit out. You idiot, you foolish, foolish bird—this wasn’t just for me—

This was for us. “Does it matter?” Aziraphale scoffed bitterly. “I’m done with this conversation.” Gathering courage amid the bitterness and betrayal, he began to walk away.

Away from Crowley and his dishonest demands. “I thought…I thought you would understand,” he said as Aziraphale reached the stairs.

Breathing in a deep, forlorn sigh, Aziraphale glared back at him, a raw, aching hurt in his eyes. “How could I understand you damning our kingdoms to war?” He started down the steps. “I’m sorry, Crowley, but we both have our sworn duties.”

“Your duty before your own heart, eh?” Crowley shot back, but Aziraphale was already gone. With no one to judge him, Crowley collapsed against a beam, sliding down to the dusty floors as he gazed out into the open night.

Aziraphale had gone.

“I should have known.” Had gone and left Crowley atop a broken clocktower, the minutes and hours ticking by too fast, out of tempo, and out of tune from one another. He sighed, feeling a thousand thorns embed themselves deep into his own, bleeding heart. “I should have known.”

-----

He has a bloody dragon, Aziraphale realized, just as he rounded the corner towards his quarters. He has a bloody dragon and basically nothing to stop him from escaping out into wilds of The Other Side where he’d get lost, get hurt, and smash his head on a bloody rock—

Aziraphale rounded back, scurrying over to the clocktower where he hoped to find Crowley right where he’d left him.

But those plans soon went awry as he nearly collided with two figures in the shadows. Aziraphale skidded to a halt as one of Crowley’s…unsavory footmen emerged towards the firelight. “Ah…the Principality,” Ligur sneered.  

“No smarmy quips today?” Hastur asked as he shed the shadows like a second skin.

“Gentlemen,” Aziraphale nodded, suddenly very nervous and suddenly very scared. “Is there a reason you two are…lurking by my quarters?”

The two glanced at each other, sharing a slimy smirk. “We’ve received word from the King, as you well know. But something we were ordered not to share with the prince is that he is sending a few of his lords here to Heaven.”

Hastur retrieved the heavy scroll, emblazoned with Hell’s crest. Aziraphale eyed the mark with a shudder, the imagery of the coiling serpent sinking its fangs into the breast of a mighty winged beast gleaming back at him. He gingerly took it from the footman’s hands as Hastur added, “He requests for you to meet them to discuss Prince Crawley’s…progress.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale corrected with a scowl. He narrowed his eyes. “Why is Prince Crowley made to be unaware of this meeting?”

“He did not take well to being reminded of the…pressures instilled upon him by the King,” Ligur said, seeming to wince at the recent memory. “The King knew of this and knew he would be resistant to any guidance offered to him. Ideally, we would give him a few days to cool off. He’s quite prone to…lashing out, as you may know. But the lords are fast approaching and we cannot delay their stay.”

“Yes, it must be very difficult for him, what with our two kingdoms’ peace riding on his shoulders,” Hastur drawled with a frown and a tsk. Yet, Aziraphale saw no sympathy in those dark, dark eyes.  

Aziraphale bit his lip. He knew to be wary of the two, but… He read through the scroll and indeed, it was there, penned and signed by the King of Hell himself. It was made abundantly clear today that Aziraphale—that Aziraphale had failed in his duty as the prince’s Guide. Crowley’s lost hope in his purpose—in their purpose— and was desperate enough to make a run for it, going so far as to try and beguile a mere Principality as an exit strategy.

Aziraphale’s chest twinged at the fresh wound, but he ignored it. He had to focus on his role and responsibilities and how to best help Crowley. How to best help their kingdoms. “Indeed,” he nodded. “Well then, what should I bring in preparation to this meeting?”

“Only yourself,” Ligur said, drawing closer and closer to the Principality. “You are his Guide after all. Your input on how to progress through the courtship and engagement to the Archangels will be invaluable.”

Close enough to perhaps even scent fear. “Yes, we are assured that you’re doing your best,” Hastur added, closing in on the lone, cagey bird, and something like a smile curled sourly on his lips. “The prince just happens to be…a stubborn, indolent thing.”

“A bit of a problem child, he is,” Ligur nodded with amusement.   

Aziraphale felt a surge of protectiveness well up within him. “Don’t—”

“Oh, don’t get us wrong, Principality Aziraphale,” Hastur offered placatingly. “Like you said, We’re all on the same side.”

“The meeting is to help Prince Crowley achieve our goals of peace, after all,” Ligur added.  

“All right,” Aziraphale said, a dizzying drop of dread, of doubt stirring in his gut. “And the meeting will be here, at the coordinates written?”

Hastur nodded. “Yes, by sundown, tomorrow.”

So soon? “Well. Then I shall go…prepare.” And as Aziraphale turned, he couldn’t be sure if it had just been a trick of the firelight or if he actually saw the twin, cruel grins shared between the Demons.

His heart thundered with anxiety, stammering right against his ribs as he reached for the door towards his rooms.

“Oh, one more thing…” Aziraphale nearly jolted at the how close Ligur sounded; he found with little surprise that the Demon had been right behind him as he swiveled around. “You must not tell any of your…winged brethren of this.”

“We don’t want to lose face before the other birds,” Hastur elaborated. “If they feel that Prince Crowley’s attempts have been…inadequate, it could be seen as an offense to the treaty. They may lose hope in the symbol of the prince’s engagement if our…difficulties were made public.”

“Do you understand, Principality Aziraphale?” Ligur asked, sounding more like a threat than a question.

Aziraphale swallowed. “You have my word,” he said, feeling very much like he’d pleaded guilty. “I’ll be there. I will tell no one.”

Guilty and faced with execution.

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

Oh my, imagine if I took a 3-month hiatus on this chapter instead. Also they did have the bandstand as a rendezvous point (the fourth rendezvous point in this story), but I really wanted the clocktower for symbolism and all that.

I do want to sincerely apologize for putting off this story for so long. Real life has been tough given the current situation and I felt more inclined to work on and finish shorter projects that felt like less commitment than working on this fic which had been a love letter to myself for getting back into writing after so many years. But I do love this fic and I swear that I'm not giving up on it. I want to see this fic through to the very end and I want to thank each and every one you, the readers, who're taking this journey with me.

[starberrywrites-ships]

An Unexpected Friendship

Naga!Hubert x Fairy!Bernadetta

Sometimes, a little fairy needs a big scary naga friend to protect her from all harm.

Read on AO3: HERE

It was a quiet morning. A few birds flying here and there, bugs making their presence known. Bernadetta hums to herself, dragging a leaf behind her as she flies around the forest. The small fairy had been traveling for most of the day, Making a promise of helping a rabbit collect food, so she was searching for berries or any edible plants. "Cranberries . . . Wild berries . . ." Bernadetta said to no one, resting herself on the forest floor, looking around. For someone her size, it was difficult to flutter around so much, her wings beginning to ache.

Not far away from where the small creature was, a naga was having a peaceful rest. Hubert lay curled up in the bushes. His tail bobbed up and down from time to time as he dreamed. He soon started snoring, flicking his tongue in his sleep. Hubert was completely unbothered, a normal day for him. Little did he know it had only begun, and there was much more in store.

"Oh! Berries!" Bernadetta dropped her little leaf basket, flying over to the bush. Beginning to fill her small hands with the fruits, finding what seemed to be a rock to rest on, as she plucked off more. Only, this wasn’t a rock at all. ‘Something is here...’ The naga thought, eyes still shut tight. Hubert can feel something touching his scaly form. He starts to stir from his slumber, slowly adjusting to the morning sun's beams.

"AHHHHH." Bernadetta screamed, feeling the ‘rock’ underneath her moving. Dropping the berries from her grip. Trying to keep her balance avoiding any further damage. Hubert heard the tiny yelp as he woke up, and his senses amplified. His eye slits shot open as he rose from the bushes, taking an obscene amount of leaves up with him. Panicked filled the fairy, realizing just what she was on.

"AHHH PLEASE DON'T KILL MEEEEEEEE!!!" Bernadetta screamed as loud as she could, rushing towards the leaf, hiding under it while shaking immensely. She had never encountered such a large, terrifying monster. Hubert scanned the forest floor. The corner of his lips curled into a smile. ‘There is something under that leaf. Perhaps a mouse? Hmmm.’ Hubert pondered. He leaned his upper body towards the ground and moved to pluck the leaf off the ground. At the last minute, he motioned against that. And instead opened his gangly hand all the way, scooping up both the leaf, and anything else that was hiding underneath it.

"WAIT WAIT WAIT PLEASE STOP!!!!" Bernadetta was not prepared for this, kicking around her legs and waving around her arms, trying to escape. ‘This is how I die. Goodbye world! Goodbye little bunnies!!’ She thought to herself, preparing for her final moments.  "Well now, what do we have here?" Hubert hissed, his grip on the leaf and the creature not budging from the struggling. "Hmmmm..."

Bernadetta let out a whine, deeming her efforts of freedom useless. "I-If you're gonna kill me, just get it over with! I don't want to suffer!!!!" she said, with one final attempt to get out. Hubert flicked his tongue, taking in the air. "You must be a fairy... ah..." he mused, curiosity painted on his face. Bernadetta shakes, nodding her head while her eyes were shut tightly. “Y-Yeah . .” ‘Scary!!!!’ She thought. ‘This is a nightmare! Stupid Bernie! This is why we don’t go out into the forest!!!’

Hubert relaxed his grip, simply letting the small creature rest on his palm. "Well, if it eases your heart, I have no intent on killing you. That would be too easy, you see, heheh..." He said, taking in every detail about Bernadetta. ‘Hmm... but this creature is a little cute…’ Hubert thought. "I'm left to wonder what you were doing out here, all by yourself?" he asked. "You could very well find yourself in the jaws of some ravenous beast" he teased, baring his fangs a little.

Although technically being held under no restraint, Bernadetta stayed in place. Too afraid to move. She flinched, holding back another scream at the look of his fangs. ‘Too easy?! AHH’ Her mind was full of screams.  “Uh . . . I was looking for berries. . .” Bernadetta says, hoping he couldn’t pick up on the shakiness in her voice. She wouldn’t want him knowing she’s in a vulnerable state, even if it is obvious.

He should’ve guessed that much, Hubert thinks for a moment. ‘’I suspected as much...” He began again, plucking a berry from the bush. He let his hand get closer to the other, and gently placed the berry beside the fairy. “It is quite rude to intrude on another’s resting spot, wouldn’t you say?” Bernadetta pouts, crossing her arms over her body, lifting her head and looking away angrily. “It’s not like I knew you were there! I thought it was rock!”

“Well, it seems you were wrong. How very unlucky that you chose to gather berries from this bush.” He gestures towards the ground, “and those must be your berries? The ones dropped there?” Her mouth drops. Pushing herself onto her knees, looking down towards the ground at the berries. “Boo . . . They’re all mushy now.” She frowns, feeling sad, lying down on her stomach still staring at the ground. Completely forgetting the fact she rested on Hubert’s palm.

Hubert takes a deep sigh. "Ah well, it's a slow morning for me anyway." he starts as he sets her down on one of the bush leaves. Making sure she was secure and wouldn’t fall. Bernadetta yelps at the sudden movement. Her body was slightly sore considering the fact she’s so small. Hubert’s grip from before was far too strong. Bernadetta lifts her arms, stretching, hoping that will loosen the tension in her muscles. “Slow morning? What could someone like you possibly do all day?”

"Usually... I am waiting." He started, "Waiting for a visitor. A nice, tasty looking visitor. Perhaps just a small morsel, even..." he says as his tongue flicks again, his head approaching the fairy. “AHH PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!” She screams. Trying to run out of fear, only to let out a whine, flinching from the pain coming from her back. Bernadetta looks behind her and notices a small tear in her wing. “Oh no oh no no you’ve done it now Bernie. Stupid stupid!”

He allowed the fairy back onto his hands. Hubert, for the first time since this whole fiasco started, feels something strange flowing in his heart. Perhaps it was his instincts acting up, but either way, it was an icky throbbing in himself. "It is torn alright..." he gently traces a finger by the wing, careful not to touch it any further. Bernadetta winced at the feeling of something against her wings. She had never gotten used to it. They were relatively sensitive after all. “Now what am I going to do. . .”

"Perhaps I treated you too harshly. I am truly sorry for what has happened to your wing." Hubert's eyes seemed softer than ever before. ‘What is this, painful feeling in my heart?’ It was something the naga had never experienced before. “I don’t think it’s your fault. . . I have a tendency of not looking where I’m going. Maybe it got caught on something earlier.” She says, trying to comfort him. Bernadetta didn’t want him to feel responsible.

But alas, Hubert did not buy it, but he won't humor that much longer. "I see... will it grow back? It surely must not be permanent, I hope?"

“Yeah. It will heal. I’ll have to stay on the ground for a bit though. Maybe wrap it up from any further damage.” In all honesty, she has never tore her wing before. She doesn’t leave the village let alone her little house. A small crease showed its way onto Hubert's expression "How far away is your home, exactly?"

Bernadetta thought for a moment, proceeding to sit criss cross. “It’s like, half a day's travel maybe? I got distracted while on my trip.” She lets out a small giggle. Amused at the fact. "No, I don't want you to travel right now..." Hubert replied. "You need time to heal it up. The journey on foot is long, arduous and dangerous."

“True. . . But still the vil-“ Bernadetta stopped. The village doesn’t even know she existed. They wouldn’t mind her not being there for a bit, right? “But uh . . . Where would I go?”

"Well, with all the things out there that would stop at nothing to have a taste of a creature like you..." Hubert paused to take a heavy breath, "Who knows what would happen out there all by yourself. Please, allow me to watch over you for the next few days. I cannot stand the idea of you all on your own, not with how... vulnerable you are at the moment."

Bernadetta felt funny. She nods softly, unable to make eye contact. Feeling too shy. And ironically, small. “Yeah you have a point . . . I guess staying with you can’t be so bad!” As long as he doesn’t try to kill me. She thought.

He spoke softly, hoping to ease her anxiety. "I hope you feel safe in the coming days. I won't let anything hurt you." Bernadetta laughed awkwardly. “T-Thanks. . . Uh, wait. What is your name? My name is Bernadetta!” She says, giving him a small wave. Hubert froze.

‘Fuck. She's so cute.’ He was a little overwhelmed by such a cheerful spirit, but did well to hide it. "I am Hubert. And as you can see, I am... quite the vicious predator." he stared blankly, away from her gaze.

Bernie shakes her head. “You are a little scary. But after talking to you, you’re not that bad! Maybe a flower would help you look less spooky!” Hubert is very glad she seems less afraid of him now. "Perhaps. I am glad things have settled down for now. Just get some rest now. Your wings will thank you." He reaches with a single digit and softly pats her head.

Bernie giggles softly as her head gets patted. Fixing her hair in the process. “Where do snakes live though? I don’t think you have a small enough bed for little Bernie here.”

"You're right. I have to accommodate somehow. Hmmm" Hubert pondered his choices carefully. "Usually I just rest wherever I tire.”

“That seems kinda lonely. . . No real place to call home. . .” Bernadetta said, her voice full of concern and sadness. She didn’t exactly like the idea of a lonely Hubert. "It does sound lonely, but it is not so bad." He half-heartedly searches for a place they can both rest. "I'm used to it by now."

She pouts, patting her small hands on the spot she rested on, trying to be comforting. “No one should have to get used to that . . . It makes me sad.” Hubert proceeded to chuckle a little, "Well, when you're as intimidating me, and you've killed plenty of living things, it was an inevitable lifestyle..."

Bernadetta smiles at the sound of Huberts chuckle. It made her feel happy. “Well, maybe I can be your friend!” ‘Hmmm... tiny friend . . .’ He thinks about it. "I suppose you could be a ‘friend’ to me. Well, more of a friend than anyone I've run into in the past few weeks."

“Uh. . . Yeah. . . Just, please don’t eat me. I can’t explain it, but I trust you Hubert.” Bernie says shyly. Playing with the hem of her skirt.  "Yes, of course. Thank you for putting your trust into me." He says. "Perhaps, maybe... we could hide out in a tree somewhere?"

"Trees huh . . . Sure! I've never flown that high before, but it can't be that scary! It's a big mushroom!" She giggles, covering her smile. "I suppose you're right...." Hubert muses. "I haven't really slept in one before, but. I hear it can be quite comfortable.."

"W-Wait! Why can't we just rest in a usual spot of yours, l-like the ground!" In all honesty, she didn't like the fact she was the cause of something new for him. Bernie wants her new friend to be comfy. Hubert's stare is intense, yet caring. "It is much safer in the trees at night. I don't want any prying animals to snatch you up. Ever." He starts stroking her head again. "As long as you are safe, then I don't care where we may rest."

Bernie felt the blood rushing towards her face. The odd comfort in Hubert's words put any worries she had at ease. Not to mention the amount of joy she is feeling with the head pats. "I-If it's okay with you. . ." She says softly, resisting every urge to melt into his touch. "Lovely. Hold tight then." Hubert gives Bernie a few seconds to prepare, before he's slithering his body to a nearby tree.

Bernadetta lets out a small yelp, grabbing onto him tightly, eyes shut, afraid to open them. Her small body pressing against him to the best of her ability to avoid any dangerous falls. Hubert made himself comfortable, his whole form resting on the tree's many branches like a scarf tangled about. He rests his head on a branch and lets the fairy sit by the nearby branch. "No creature would bother approaching me, so it would be best for you to stay close. Make yourself comfy, otherwise..." He spoke.

Bernie nods, grabbing a leaf from nearby and begins folding, and folding, and folding. After many folds, she had a small little bed! She pushes it closer to Hubert, and rests on it. "Thank you again Hubert . . . You probably saved me from dying today hehe!" ‘Even though you could have killed me.’

"I would not dare to imagine how it would have gone had you found yourself flightless without anyone to help."Hubert mutters. "You are a very lucky little fairy, aren't you?" He said, sleepy and obviously ready for bed. He shivered a bit, but seemed at ease that Bernie was safe. He let his thumb stroke her hair softly, enjoying the smooth feeling.

Bernadetta hummed, this time allowing herself to melt and get comfortable under his touch. She herself was also getting tired, deciding it was time to rest. After all, there was a new day waiting for her and her new friend. "Good night . . . Hu . . bert." Hubert touched his fingers to his lips, then gently bapped them on her head. "Goodnight to you as well... Bernadetta." He said. It was warm, the softest he's ever been. ‘Cute, cute, cute!!!!!‘

[firebirdsdaughter]

Random Writing Tidbit Ah…

… Nothing like good ol’ spite to break a slump.

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a ‘slump’ it was just slow going.

Anyway, I’m at a point where I feel like if I keep poking at this, I’ll ruin it.

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

It all blends together.

At first, the figure framed in the sunlight in front of him is his son—until he hears his name in a different voice.

Why is Zero-One’s secretary here? He knows she would never turn on her beloved master, that she’s blind to the evils of humanity. As usual, she’s full of praises for humans, about how they grant hopes and dreams.

Nothing about how they take them away.

Jin hasn’t been taking care of himself. Or perhaps whoever built this body hasn’t been taking care of him. Aside from the new injuries, there’s other, older damage and wear. He finds himself filling in cracks, replacing components, reconnecting wires. It’s an arduous chore—not because it is difficult, though there is much to do, and it is delicate work, even if he can make the printer work for him, even without the Ark.

Instead, the trouble comes from the way he finds himself repeatedly stopping to stare at his son’s still face.

When he reaches out to them, he can feel them, feel their minds brushing against his. Snippets of code, system alerts, sounds, sights. He can feel the binds on them, locking them into place. The way their hearts are tied down, the cracks in that façade. Like parts of them are seeping into him, pulling him in all different directions. Their thoughts. Their memories. Their pain. It’s dizzying, even though their cordoned minds are still water to the torrential storm of feeling happening inside him.

The ones that come are quiet, somber, footsteps slow but certain, more than he expected, with all the new ones coming out, so deeply entrenched in their human programming, but less than he had hoped would open their eyes.

When he turns around, all their faces are Jin.

The clothes are simpler, though they take longer. He knows how to wash and sew, and manages to reconfigure the printer. While it’s working, he wets a rag and uses it to wipe the dust and grime off Jin’s face, cupping his son’s cheek in his palm, his thumb absently tracing the crown—an action that surprises him into stillness for a moment. He never does anything without thinking. Naturally, Jin doesn’t move, but his hand lingers there even after the work is done, staring.

Jin will not open his eyes, Even repaired, he’s out of energy and shut off. But even if he did…

He bites his lip and moves away, the task done, and switches to cleaning the dirt off his son’s hand, keeping his head down.

Vulcan.

A human he knows. A human he’s comfortable with. When he turns and looks toward them, it’s Valkyrie who turns into Jin before she’s shouting and waving her weapon, but Vulcan stays the same.

The secretary sings Zero-One’s praises, but the name Hiden is a viper masquerading as a dove. But a wolf is a wolf. A Hiden makes promises they never keep, wants HumaGear kept in a gilded cage, blind to the cruelty of humans, locked in place. But Vulcan…

Vulcan has never lied to him. Never treated him like a tool. Never been anything but what he is. And Vulcan knows just how cruel humans can be.

If there’s a human that will make sense, that he knows will answer honestly, a human who just might… It’s Vulcan. Fuwa Isamu.

He has to pin him down to be heard because Vulcan doesn’t stop, his emotions run too strong, but he’ll do it on a chance.

Can you prove human malice will never resurrect the Ark?

The human he almost trusts. The one who bothered to question him.

I’m here to destroy you.

The words ring like a death knell. His mind is blank, motions automatic as he loads Sting Scorpion into the Bow, a reflex in response to the impending attack. Striking back with the Key that’s become a part of him, because it feels more personal. Revenge for the something he feels breaking, dissolving deep inside him at the eye of the storm, and the apathy that fills the void it leaves behind.

It might have been hope. He doesn’t know. He has no frame of reference for that term. And now he never will.

The resulting explosion sends them both flying back—and shatters the fragile tie between them.

Jin’s hair is soft under his fingers, despite the state it’s in. He tries to check his memory to see if it is softer than it was before—but stops when he realises he cannot remember the last time he touched his son’s head. He keeps Jin’s head in his lap with one hand, using the other to pull the comb through his unruly locks. There’s many, many tight little tangles, messy, dirty, and knotted together, and he’ll have to wash it and then comb it again when he’s done. Maybe it’s a good thing Jin is turned off—before, he was always touchy and squirrelly, making a fuss at the slightest tug of something catching in his hair. Although perhaps this new body isn’t as sensitive, or maybe Jin has grown out of his childish habits. Not like he could notice.

But even with that weight upon his shoulders, this is… Nice. Sitting on the sofa, with his son’s head pillowed in his lap, gently, carefully combing his hair. Again he finds himself almost wishing that Jin was awake, despite the chore it could end up being with his squirming. But even that would be… Peaceful.

But… It would be a false peace.

Wonderful. She calls them wonderful.

The way she talks about humans, about Zero-One, sounds similar to how he used to… Feel about the Ark. Was that a feeling?

It makes sense. That was his crime, was it not, devotion to the wrong master. And before that… The chasm between them is far too wide and too deep. Is it possible for whatever meagre good might be in humanity to override the extensive, consuming, twisted malice still carved and burned into his memory? His first thought, riding the wave of a particularly painful night when the Ark had wanted… His first thought is no.

And yet… When she says it’s not too late, and though she speaks of Zero-One in those obnoxiously worshipful terms—despite himself, his memories jump to yet another human.

Jin is lighter than he used to be, probably a result of newer materials. Even though he’s completely limp, it’s easy to carry him over to the wheelchair and sit him up in it, carefully supporting his head for a moment in order to connect the charge cables. His hair is still slightly damp, but drying quickly, and a quick comb-through with fingers established there are no remaining large tangles.

The moment the cables connect, his son’s body stiffens for a moment, then relaxes into a natural sitting position. He still doesn’t reactivate, but he feels alive again, not limp deadweight. The storm inside him doesn’t calm, exactly, but there’s something more… Pleasant in amongst the chaos. He can just barely hear Jin’s base systems slowly restarting when he readjusts his auditory systems, like the purr of a new motor. Something sharp and cold pricks at his chest when he thinks about how different this body is then then one he made—but then he looks at Jin’s face, still the same, and it doesn’t matter.

This is Jin. His son. His…

He wants her to stop.

He doesn’t need a ‘heart.’ He doesn’t want one. Especially not from Hiden.

It’s just another way to keep them in a cage. Make them think they need to depend on humans. He doesn’t want a ‘heart.’

And he definitely doesn’t want to be believed in.

Why won’t she stop looking at him?

Sad, soft, innocent eyes. Eyes he knows.

No. No no no no no no. Don’t. Don’t look like that. Not that.

Don’t look like him.

The one person he cannot bear to be seen by now. Not like this. Not after everything he’s done.

Those are the eyes of a child long gone, swallowed up by the rampaging tide of hatred of humanity manifested by the Ark, pushed into the current by his father’s own hands. It was the ghost of those eyes, staring up at him in fright, that made his body lock up when the Ark tried to bring down the sword. Those eyes are at the centre of the storm churning and crashing inside him, chaos he can’t make sense of no matter how hard he tries—the very source of everything he doesn’t understand.

It hurts to look at them. It hurts to be seen by them. It all blends together and he can’t tell who’s standing in front of him anymore.

He just wants the pain to stop, for those eyes to go away, for the storm to stop raging.

Don’t look like my angel.

He doesn’t remember letting go of the trigger.

Reaching up, he gently brushes Jin’s bangs away from his forehead, studying his son’s face carefully. For a moment, he just stands there, memorising the details. This is goodbye, after all.

He cannot return what he—the Ark—humans took from them. It was lost long ago, when they judged his dream inconvenient for their interests. Even though the only sense he’s been able to make of the storm brewing inside him is a desperate yearning for that very thing. But they cannot have it back. Humans never return what they take.

Leaning down, he presses a gentle kiss to Jin’s brow. It’s not an apology because there are things that cannot be apologised for. It’s a promise.

In exchange for taking their past, he will make humans give his son a future of peace and freedom, a place where Jin can smile—by eradicating their evil from the planet, no matter the cost. Humans taught him cruelty, made him into this; and now it will be their undoing. He runs his hand over Jin’s hair one more time, then turns and leaves the room, closing the door behind him—as another promise, that his son will never have to see him again. Because he shouldn’t.

Angels should not mingle with monsters.

And a monster he must be.

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

Of course in my world things between Horobi and Fuwa are not actually/ultimately completely ruined, they can pry that relationship from my cold, dead, fingers, but Horobi’s really not in a good place right now.

… Understatement of the century.

[lacrossepapi]

Fragility

@steterweek day six: the bite was a proposal

Just a warning for everyone this is pretty heavy and angsty! Also some Gore!

Ao3 link| words:

“You must be Stiles.” The words fond and amused.  

“You’re the clever one, Stiles.” Pleased words accompanied by a surprisingly soft grip on his chin despite the claws digging into his skin. 

“I like you, Stiles.” This time the words were whispered like a lover’s caress against the sliver of skin peeking out from his sleeve. 

“Yes or no, Stiles?” Words delivered with impatience and demanding, but with no heat.

Odd that Stiles found himself thinking of the time he’d made a choice, as he lay bleeding out in the middle of Shakespeare Park knowing he’d never get to make another choice again, much less take Peter up on his offer from so long ago. 

How many times had he said “No” this time? 

How many times had he screamed it? 

How many times had he prayed that one of his pack members could hear him? 

He didn’t even know who he was praying to, he hadn’t believed in a higher power since the last time he’d seen the inside of the hospice. 

Maybe that’s why his prayers went unanswered. 

A chuckle ripped through his shredded chest causing blood to well up in his throat. He spit it out as best he could and tried to get his cold, numb hand to work. He wanted to say goodbye to his father, but did he want his father’s last memory of his only child be the sound of him dying? 

No, that wouldn’t do at all. He slowly wormed his hand into his back pocket, the phone slippery with blood. 

He sends what he thinks is a goodbye text to his father, but he couldn’t really be sure through the tears, blood loss going to his head, and blood staining everything. Then as his head swam with the ever approaching black out before death he decided to call Peter Hale. A man he hadn’t seen since he’d left for college two years ago. A man that Stiles was thinking about a lot in his last moments.

What if Stiles had said yes four years ago? 

What if Stiles had left with Peter to travel the world two years ago? 

What if Stiles had been able to call him sooner?

“Stiles? How lovely to see your name on my phone. I’m actually on-” 

“Stiles why does your breathing sound like that? Stiles! Why can’t I hear your heartbeat through the phone?!” 

The dying human could hear Peter growing more frantic with each breath that wetly fell from his lips, but he didn’t think he could speak even if he tried. 

“Stiles please answer me. Where are you?” Peter’s voice sounded wet too. 

It wasn’t funny, it really truly wasn’t funny, but Stiles found a giggle bubble out of him. It didn’t really sound like a laugh, but he didn’t really think it was funny that he wasn’t going to die alone and yet he couldn’t actually speak to let Peter know he was dying. 

“Darling I heard that. I heard your sound. Try to tell me where you are. Please Stiles. Please try for me.” Peter Hale sounding that broken should be a crime against humanity, and the sound of it tore at something in Stiles. 

The ‘sh” sound that came out of him sounded more like a groan and less like the beginning of the word “Shakespeare”, but he was trying. 

“Sh- what sweet boy? Keep going, please.” Peter was sobbing now. 

Stiles hated that sound, hated it more than he hated almost anything in the world. 

“Ache” The word came out guttural and broken. 

“I hear you. Shake what Stiles? Shakes and Tots?” 

“N-No.” 

“Shake Shack?” 

“No.”

“Shakespeare?” 

“-es.” 

“Okay. I understand. Shakespeare. Does that mean Shakespeare park just off campus?” Peter was always the second smartest in the pack. 

“-es.” The ‘y’ sound was hard to make so Stiles didn’t even try that time.

“I’m almost there Stiles. I’m so close. Are you still in danger? Is it still there?” Peter was close? How?

“K-kill-ed” It fucking hurt to speak so much, but Peter needed to know that Stiles was going to die but at least he took the mother fucker down with him. 

“Good boy. What was it?” Peter sounded more put together this time. 

“O-meg-a.” 

“Oh my sweet boy, why would you ever go after an Omega alone?” Peter’s question irritated the part of Stiles that didn’t care that he was dying, that only cared that no one thought he was an idiot. 

An angry grunt escaped him followed by a pained groan.

“So not on purpose, an accident then.” Peter sounded angry now. 

Peter angry brought back memories Stiles was almost fond of. He closed his eyes and let his memories roll over him in warm waves of contentment. 

-

Stiles groaned, his head throbbing as streaks of light burned his eyes. He pushed through the pain and blinked himself into awareness. He was in a hospital bed, which made sense when his memories finally came crashing back in. He should've been dead, might actually be dead if he let himself go down that particular road. 

"Son." 

His father's words came out in a soft creak instead if the warm rubble they normally were. Almost as if the former Beacon Hills sheriff had cried himself hoarse, and that thought punched a hole through Stiles more than any supernatural enemy could ever hope to do. 

"D-a-d" Each letter a dry rasp. 

His father hushed him gently as he moved closer to hold his cheek in his calloused hand. 

"Your throat was pretty torn up. Most of you was pretty torn up, actually." His voice lost volume leaving him to only mouth the last word. 

"S-s-orry" Stiles needed his father to know he never ever wanted him to grieve a family member again. 

Before his dad could say anything the door was opening and Peter Hale was walking in with two coffees. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, and at the sight of Stiles he shuddered. A shudder Stiles felt in his own chest. 

"Good morning Briar Rose." Peter smiled gently at him as he approached. 

"Name w-was A-A-uor-a." Stiles tried to snark back but once again was reminded of how sensitive his throat was. 

"Yes it was but I don't think you're some beautiful, unknowable phenomenon. The other name suits you much better." Peter's gentle smile shifted into his typical know-it-all smirk. 

Stiles found himself smiling as a string wave of nostalgia washed over him, reminding him of days spent researching or just talking with Peter. 

Instead of trying to speak again Stiles just nodded at him before turning back to face his father, whose blue eyes were filled with tears. 

"'m here." Stiles whispered, his numb hand coming up to rest against his father's arm. 

"And I'm so glad for that, son." 

Peter spoke up again, drawing his attention away from his dad, "You're probably wondering how I was able to get you here." 

Stiles nodded again, shifting to watch Peter as the older man handed his dad a cup and both men sat down on either side of his bed. 

"It was a serendipitous chance that lead me to visit Beacon Hills. I landed at LAX and was going to get a hotel room, but the flight left me with a need to smell fresh air free of the stench of humanity." Peter intoned melodically, almost as if he was a bard in the dark ages. 

Stiles rolled his eyes, and immediately regretted it. 

"So I started the arduous trip back home in the middle of the night, on a whim. A song came on the radio that reminded me of you and I suddenly found myself taking the highway that went by your school instead of the one that went straight to Beacon Hills. I don't know what I was thinking or why I was being so impulsive, you know I rarely act on impulse after the disasters of my youth." Peter said with his own eye roll. 

Stiles huffed a breath of laughter knowing Peter was referencing biting Scott, but an image of Peter alone in a hospital bed reminder Stiles that much of his young adult years were spent in a coma. 

"And then by some chance you called me. Not Scott, or Derek, or any of the others who could've potentially saved you." The look Peter gave him communicated that he knew Stiles hadn't called him to save him. He just hadn't wanted to die alone. 

"You're alive right now because nostalgia and romantic notions of the past brought us back into each other's paths on the one night you truly needed me." Peter gripped Stiles' hand in a rare moment of tenderness.

"How?" Stiles was having a slightly easier time talking now that he'd worked his vocal chords a bit. 

Peter's face shuttered and a small shiver went through him, "I regret not having your consent but I do not regret giving you the bite." 

His blue eyes were blazing as he stared into Stiles' before flashing them red. 

Something in Stiles snapped awake and a whine released from his shredded vocal chords. 

Peter had bitten him, but didn't he say all those years ago that survival wasn't guaranteed? Stiles had seen the wolves say that if someone was too close to death the bite could speed things along instead of healing them. Peter clearly realized the risk was worth a try, either it took or it didn't. The outcome of Stiles dying was three out of four. A scary thought now that he was here and alive, he didn't want to feel that peaceful finality again for a long long time. 

"I had always planned it so much differently. I had so many scenarios in my head, but you always did ruin my plans, clever darling." Peter smiled at him and Stiles remembered the charged atmosphere of the garage all those years ago. 

The bite was sacred, pack was more than family and Peter had wanted Stiles since day one. Stiles wondered about the different scenarios Peter had drummed up for a moment before dismissing those thoughts to listen. 

"Once I bit you I knew the change wouldn't be enough. I-" he cleared his throat before continuing " I hadn't seen that level of carnage in a long time. You needed a hospital and fast. I had to make a gurney out of tree branches and a blanket I found in my trunk, even with the gurney I still had to drag you to my car and leverage you into the bad seat." 

Peter swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room. 

Stiles couldn't look at his father, he knew there would be tears running down his dad's face. 

"Thank you." Stiles whispered. 

Peter grinned at him, though his eyes were pained. 

"Anything for you, darling."

"All those," a pause to work saliva into his mouth, "y-years ago, you offered more than pack." Another pause to lick his lips. 

"You offered more than being a beta."

Peter sat frozen staring at Stiles in shock, the former sheriff's wet, surprised laughter breaking the tension. 

"Hale, did you really not think he would research bite locations and their meanings?" Stiles looked back at his father, a smile on his lips at his father's words. 

"You know?" Peter was like a fish out of water, flopping between the Stilinski men's gazes. 

"Of course I know. He doesn't keep anything from me anymore. He figured it out right after you left." Father and son turned identical grins on Peter, though one was slightly hidden by a split lip and bruises. 

"He whined and cried about not going with you for weeks after he found out he had denied you twice." This time only father grinned while son turned an afronted look on him. 

"Stiles?"

 Stiles didn't really know what Peter was asking, but he didn't think Peter really knew either. 

His throat was beginning to hurt more earnestly so he gently, carefully lifted his hand to caress Peter's cheek before baring his wrist to the alpha werewolf. 

"Yes." Stiles whispered his eyes burning supernaturally gold. 

Peter's whole body practically lit up, a genuine, pleased smile stealing its way across his face before he bared sharp fangs and bit down gently. 

[a-splash-of-stucky]

no one left behind

Pairings: None

Summary: Steve becomes a cat-dad.

Warnings: None! (ok,,,maybe a bit of language)

WC: 2.6k

Notes: I love Steve and I love cats, so this fic was kinda meant-to-be. The kittens and their names are all based off cats that I’ve had at some point in my life. Written for @happystevebingo, for the fill “Kittens”

My Masterlist | Happy Steve Bingo Masterlist

Steve expertly guides his bike into his garage before putting down the kickstand and killing the engine. He pulls off his helmet and gloves, then rakes his fingers through his sweaty hair as he sighs in relief, grateful to finally be home.

‘Home’ for Steve refers to a refurbished warehouse about forty minutes away from Avengers Tower. It’s in a derelict industrial area, complete with sagging chain-link fences and crude graffiti adorning nearly every surface. There’re a lot of immigrants in the place, which makes for some pretty delicious takeout shops.

The Tower’s nice enough, and his floor has all the gadgets and gizmos that he could ever need (and then some), but there’s just something about this place that fills him with a sense of peace.

Steve’s spent the better part of the last three years working on this warehouse, tearing the walls down, only to build them back up. It had been his project, something that he worked on in between missions.

The warehouse is large and spacious, as warehouses tend to be. It’s got two floors and all the conveniences of the modern world, without any of the frivolous stuff. He’s opted for an open floor-plan, so all the rooms are connected to basically everything else, which makes the place seem even bigger than it is.

His garage is in a small outhouse located to the east of the warehouse itself. Once he’s stowed his helmet and gloves, Steve locks the garage, then heads out onto the short gravel path that takes him from his garage to his front door.

He’s itching to get inside and soak in a nice long bath, preferably with some Netflix and a tub of ice cream. This week’s mission had been particularly gruelling, and though he doesn’t have any severe injuries, his muscles are still sore from making the arduous trek across the Swiss Alps.

The Alps are just as bad now as they were back in the war.

Steve fishes his keys out of his back pocket as he comes up to his door. He pauses abruptly, immediately on edge when he notices that the shoe cupboard beside his front door is slightly ajar.

He’s sure that he closed it up properly when he left.

Tentatively, he wedges the toe of his boot into the gap and, after a deep breath, whips the door open, internally bracing himself to see a bomb or something.

What he sees instead is quite the opposite.

There, nestled amongst his Uggs and loafers, is a grey tabby, curled protectively around four tiny balls of fur. She blinks up at him, mildly dazed by the sudden burst of sunlight. Her mouth opens on a little meow.

Steve blinks, stunned.

Well then. This isn’t what he was expecting.

“Hey there,” he says quietly, as he slowly sinks into a squat, resting his elbows on his thighs. The mama tracks him with her intelligent green eyes, but makes no move to attack him. This close, he realises that the kittens are suckling on her.

“Wow,” Steve breathes, as he gets a proper look at them.

He’d thought there were four kittens, but as it turns out, there are five; one of the kittens is currently being squashed by all their siblings. One kitten is an orange tabby and one kitten looks like a miniature replica of its mother. The biggest kitten has fur as white as snow and is currently trampling a kitten that’s black all over, except for its paws, which are white — it looks like it’s got socks on. The kitten that’s being squashed by its siblings is white with black spots on it.

Steve watches them for a few seconds, a smile on his face; there’s something so serene about the scene.

It’s clear that they’ve been here for some time — maybe the mama even gave birth in his shoe cupboard. The strong odour of cat piss fills Steve’s nostrils, and a couple of bones on the floor indicate that mama has been out hunting for food at least once. Steve doesn’t know a lot about kittens, but judging by their size, these ones look to be a few weeks old, possibly.

Hesitantly, Steve stretches out his right hand, offering his fingers to the mama, for her to sniff. She recoils in suspicion at first, but after regarding him with baleful eyes for a few seconds, she leans forward and gives him a curious sniff. Mama cat doesn’t flinch away when Steve brushes his fingers over her head, so he takes that as a good sign.

Her fur is softer than he expected it to be — it’s silky, like the fur throws he’s got on his couch. When she tips her head up and back, he notices for the first time a dark grey collar wrapped around her neck. The fabric is dirty and fraying at the edges, and it’s digging into her fur like it’s uncomfortably tight. The place where a tag should be hanging is empty and the metal slightly deformed, as if the tag has been ripped off.

Steve presumes that this cat has been abandoned, possibly because she got pregnant.

People can be pretty damn cruel, sometimes.

He can’t leave her to be choking on her own collar, so Steve snaps into action. Hastily, he unlocks his front door, keys in his passcodes to turn off the alarm systems, then dashes into the kitchen, in search of a box. He finds a large delivery box in his recycling pile which he opts to use.

Steve stops by his laundry room to retrieve some old clothes that he’d been planning to donate at the local charity store. A few of t-shirts will make for some nice, soft bedding.

Once he’s back outside, Steve sets the box down by the shoe cupboard. Mama cat blinks her green eyes at him curiously.

“I’m gonna move you guys in here,” Steve tells her, as if she’s intelligent enough to talk back to him.

Then again, who knows. Cats are strange creatures — perhaps she does understand English.

Steve hopes that mama cat doesn’t mind being picked up. Gingerly, he reaches into the shoe cupboard and gets his hands around her; luckily, she doesn’t twist away or try to scratch him. Steve winces when the kittens begin mewling in distress as soon as he lifts her up, their sharp, pitiful cries piercing the air.

Mama cat wriggles in his grip and tries to get away, so Steve quickly dumps her into the box, then hastily scoops the kittens up in his big hands and places them inside, next to her.

Steve takes a step back and gives them all a minute to settle down. He watches as the mama licks at her kittens to make sure that they’re safe, purring loudly all the while to soothe them. The orange and white kittens are nuzzling insistently at her tummy, so she plops back down onto her side, allowing all five kittens to latch on again. Once they’re suckling happily, mama cat glances up at Steve and flicks her tail lazily, as if to say we’re in here — what’s next?

“I’m gonna carry you inside, okay?” he says, in response to her silent question. Whether by coincidental timing or because she understands and actually agrees to his suggestion, at that moment, she flops her head down and closes her eyes.

Confident that they’re not going to put up too much of a fuss, Steve gets to his feet and picks up the box, taking care not to jostle the inhabitants around too much. He sees mama cat tense up in alarm, but she makes no move to leap out of the box, which he is thankful for. Steve carries them into his house, kicking the front door shut with his foot. For lack of a better place to put the box, he sets it down on the kitchen floor, beside the island, before hunting through his drawers for a pair of kitchen shears to cut off that collar.

“Aha!” he says triumphantly, when he finds them in his cutlery drawer.

(Why they were in his cutlery drawer he’s not entirely sure. He thinks Sam might’ve had something to do with that.)

Shears in hand, Steve kneels beside the box and waves them at the mama.

“I’m gonna cut that off you,” he says, gesturing towards the collar. “You’re gonna feel better after that.”

For a brief moment, Steve wonders why he’s narrating everything that he’s doing to the cat. He finds that he’s got no answer for himself other than ‘it feels appropriate’.

After adjusting his grip on the handle, Steve reaches into the box, moving slowly so as to not startle anyone. Mama cat tenses like she’s going to scurry away when he grabs her collar between his finger and thumb, but relaxes again when she realises that he means her no harm. Her tail is curled protectively over her kittens — and isn’t that just the sweetest thing he’s ever seen?

With one quick snip, the fabric collar has been cut. Steve backs away fast, so that he doesn’t stress the mama out any further. She shakes her head and moves it around, like she’s relieved to have finally regained full range of movement in her neck. He fishes the offending collar out of the box and dumps it into the trash, before heading to the sink to wash his hands.

Steve leans against the island as he observes the mama and her kittens, who have now had their fill of milk and are eagerly exploring the box that Steve’s put them in. Since she’s no longer being crushed by her offspring, mama cat pushes herself up onto her legs, eyes the edge of the box, before elegantly leaping out of it. Once outside, she sits down beside it, then turns to look up at Steve.

They stare each other down for a few long seconds, before she finally lets out a quiet meow.

Steve tilts his head to the side. “What?”

In response, she gets up and starts sniffing the corners of the box. Her kittens are still playing inside it, curiously examining his old t-shirts.

“You want me to take ‘em out?” he asks her.

She turns to him and lets out another meow — somehow, she sounds more insistent this time.

“Okay, sure — I can do that,” Steve says easily.

He picks the kittens up one by one, depositing them on the kitchen floor, beside their mama. They’re so — tiny. He can feel the rapid flutter of their heartbeats against his fingers when he picks them up. They wriggle and mewl, unaccustomed to being lifted so high, but once he’s put them back on solid ground, they calm down again.

Upon further inspection, Steve realises that these kittens must be a couple of months’ old, at least. They’ve moved past the ‘drowned-rat’ stage of their life, and now resemble fluffy balls of fur with legs. They’re toddling around, barely able to stay on their feet as they pad across the kitchen tiles, still not quite able to properly coordinate their limbs. It’s clear that they have a while to go before they develop the quiet grace that is so typical of felines.

Mama cat is busy licking herself clean, but from the way her ears are constantly twitching, Steve knows that she’s keeping an eye on her little ones.

Slowly, Steve sinks to the floor and folds his legs underneath himself, so that he can watch the kittens better. They’re extremely alert, looking around his place with their wide, inquisitive eyes. He watches as the white one with black spots playfully leaps onto a couple of its siblings, which results in a brief tussle amongst all three of them.

The black one with white paws toddles over to him. Steve watches with bated breath as it sniffs curiously at his kneecap.

Apparently, he smells okay, because a second later, the kitten digs its claws into his trousers and clumsily climbs onto his thigh. It sits down and looks up at Steve with its big blue eyes, before letting out the tiniest of squeaks.

A funny feeling blooms in Steve’s chest. It’s as if his heart is rapidly expanding, growing so large that it’s pressing up against his ribcage and squashing his lungs, making it harder to breathe.

He realises that the kitten looks like a cat that he had back when he was a kid.

Or, well.

He didn’t have a cat, so much as the cat had a human. He and Bucky had called her Misty, and she used to come to his fire-escape every now and then. She’d been a scrap of a thing, always peering at the world through suspicious, beady eyes, but for whatever strange reason, she had a soft spot for Steve. He used to leave bits of food out for her, if ever he had any to spare.

Steve takes one look at mama cat, gives a cursory glance over her balls of fluff and decides then and there that there is no way he’s kicking any of them out.

“We need to give you all names,” he decides.

“I’m calling you Stripey,” says Steve, addressing the mama cat. Yeah, maybe it’s a tad unoriginal, but she’s got black stripes on the bottom half of her long tail — it’s a sensible name for a cat.

Steve settles on Snowball for the white kitten and Junior for the kitten who looks like a miniature version of Stripey. The white one with black spots is called Spotty (again: super original) and the orange tabby he names Sam, because Sam’s more of a dog person, and Steve’s got a twisted sense of humour.

“And you,” he says, talking to the kitten still perched on his thigh. He boops its nose with the tip of his finger. “I’m calling you Mittens.”

The kitten meows in response. Steve takes that as a seal of approval.

It is at this moment that Steve realises that his house is sorely under-equipped to take care of a cat and five kittens; he hasn’t even got any milk in the fridge, for fuck's sake.  

“JARVIS?” he calls.

“Yes, Captain Rogers?” JARVIS replies.

Tony had insisted that he integrated the AI’s system into his warehouse, so that Steve would still be able to receive news from the Tower (in case of emergencies). JARVIS also handles his state-of-the-art security system, which is an added bonus.

“I’m gonna need everything you’d need to look after a cat,” says Steve. “Uh — cat food, kitty litter, a litter box. Maybe some catnip — is that even a thing? Oh, and a cat tree.”

Stripey perks up at the words ‘cat tree’ and turns to look at him, her eyes narrowed accusingly.

“Make that two cat trees.”

“That’s all been ordered, Captain, as well as some cat treats and nutritional supplements you might consider useful,” JARVIS says smoothly, “They’re due to arrive at your warehouse by the end of the day.”

———

Sam pays Steve a visit two weeks later.

He opens the front door using his spare key, only to trip over a cat toy that had been left on the floor. Just as he opens his mouth to ask Steve why the hell he has a cat toy, a ball of orange fur skitters across the floor, towards the kitchen.

Two seconds later, four other balls of fluff appear out of nowhere, racing off in the same direction.

“You got kittens?” he asks incredulously.

“Yeah!” Steve calls, from the kitchen. “The orange one’s named Sam.”

“Aw, you named your cat after me?” says Sam, sounding pleased. He pauses for a moment, a slight furrow developing between his brows.

“Steve, you know I hate cats.”

“I know you do. That’s why I called him Sam.”

“Goddammit Rogers,” Sam mutters.

[mushroomminded]

Mend Until You’re Whole (End)

The Aftermath of Bend Until You Break

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Written by @fundeadasylum, illustrated by myself.

They were called to testify in the midst of a heavy winter.

The bitter cold sunk down to Milo’s bones and made his chest ache something fierce, each breath of chilly air a raw scrape of sandpaper across his insides. Even through his multiple layers, the wind found a way to seep into the cracks and burn against his skin. He was shivering by the time they’d crossed the parking lot to the courthouse and he clutched at Dan for warmth as they stepped through the doors.

“It’ll be okay, Milo,” Dan’s voice was a low and reassuring rumble, comforting, even in the misunderstanding of Milo’s tremors, “We won’t let anything happen to you. I swear on my life.”

“No one’s going to hurt you ever again,” Jake took Milo’s hand in his, offering a somewhat anxious smile,

“We’ll make sure of it.”

———

It felt like they were in the courtroom for hours.

Sometimes there was yelling. Sometimes a lot of charts and big words and documents were thrown around.

Milo dozed off at some point only to wake with a scream of fear when the judge banged his hammer on the gavel. When his sudden outburst made everyone turn to look at him, he writhed in his seat and hid himself in the arms of his dads.

Neither Dan nor Jake would acknowledge Mr. or Mrs. Sumney’s existence. Milo looked at them once, saw the look of furious disgust Mr. Sumney was giving Dan, and flipped them both off with a snarl that showed his teeth. After that, they could have been a brick in the wall for all the attention he gave them.

The court session stretched on and on until the judge finally admitted they would have to return to pick up the proceedings another time.

It was going to be a long and arduous journey.

———

Jake couldn’t sleep.

He’d gotten into a comfortable position, closed his eyes, and evened out his breathing, exhaustion tugging at him, luring him towards the rest he so desperately needed. But his mind wouldn’t slow down. His thoughts chased each other in circles in his head, tearing up the metaphorical landscape of his mind, anxiety chewing on his frayed nerves and buzzing tension at the back of his skull.

The clock read almost 1am and, despite how tired he was, the nervous clenching of his stomach told him that attempting sleep was a futile effort. With a resigned sigh, Jake rolled himself out of bed and shrugged on the jacket hanging from his closet door.

The house was quiet when he eased his door open, making his way down the hall on the balls of his feet. He paused outside of Milo’s bedroom, eyeing the half open door—it was never shut these days, not all the way, at least. Then, gnawing on his lip and unable to fight the anxiety stirring inside him, Jake gently nudged the door open enough to peer into the room.

Milo was asleep, curled up tightly in his bed under two comforters and at least five other blankets. There was an enormous pile of shark and sea creature plushies around him, the biggest wrapped in his arms and pressed against his face, a few of the smaller ones having escape to the floor. Milo would twitch occasionally, murmur under his breath, but it was never enough to wake him and he would always fall still again, his breathing even and deep. The lamp on his desk painted the walls in ethereal-blue fish and tiny stars, the little motor in the lamp making them flow around the room as the shade rotated around the light. Everything was cast in a deep, peaceful cerulean, deepening the shadows and glittering off the eyes of the sharks in Milo’s bed. The entire room had the same feeling as that domed room in the aquarium, serene and separated from the rest of reality by something intangible, something that could not be understood, a dream among the sharks, beautiful and terrifying but completely and perfectly safe.

Jake smiled to himself and backed away from the door, tugging it almost closed again, and made his way down the hall again. The stairs creaked softly in the dark as he felt his way down with the aid of the banister, fingers trailing over the cooled and polished wood. The path was familiar, he’d been living here for years, but in the dark with all those thoughts and fears chewing holes through his logic, the way seemed longer and more foreboding, a long descent into a cold, dark hell.

He thought about turning on the lights when he reached the sitting room, but the stimulation seemed like too much. So he sank onto the couch and turned on the television, cranking the volume down to a low murmur. Then he settled back, pulled a pillow into his chest, and listlessly watched stupid late night infomercials, the mind numbing ridiculousness of the two-for-one deals washing over him in grounding waves. He was so caught up in staring at the tv and letting his mind wander, that he didn’t hear the stairs creak or the footsteps padding across the sitting room carpet.

He jumped when a warm body sat down next to him on the couch.

“Hey, couldn’t sleep?” Dan asked, looking just as tired as Jake felt.

“Mm, yeah,” Jake croaked into the pillow he was nearly squeezing the stuffing out of, “Can’t get my head to slow down.”

Dan made a noise of acknowledgement, letting his gaze wander to the television screen, “Same here. I was reading when I heard you get out of bed. When you didn’t come back upstairs, figured I’d join you.”

Jake sighed and relieved the pillow enough to rub a hand over his face, “I just…it feels like it’s one thing after another and like we can’t get a break. And I just…I just want things to be okay. To be better. Milo deserves that. Hell, Milo deserves so much better and this court bullsh—stuff is just dragging him back down after we tried to so damn—darn hard to get him to—god, when’s the last time he really smiled, Dan?” Jake looked up, his expression twisted in genuine despair and distress, fingers biting into the abused pillow, his knuckles white with tension, “He smiled at the aquarium but he cried too and he hasn’t smiled since and this court—this whole hearing—it’s killing him! He’s s-so scared all the time and he’s hurting and I can’t—I don’t—how are we supposed to do anything!? How are we s-supposed to help h-him!? How—“

“Jake!” Dan hissed and Jake snapped his mouth shut, looking a little afraid. Dan winced, “Sorry, just…you were getting a little loud, buddy. Don’t wanna wake up the kid.”

Jake drew in a shuddering breath and pressed his face into the pillow with a quiet noise that might have been a whimper. The television buzzed in the silence that filtered in between them.

“Do you ever…forget that it’s him?”

Even with his voice muffled by the pillow, the hoarse croak of Jake’s words were audible over the ad for a perfect blend of steak knives and non-stick frying pans. Dan stared at the back of his head but Jake didn’t move.

Dan sighed and turned to the tv screen, “Yeah, sometimes. A lot more than I’d like to admit. There’s a part of me that doesn’t want this to end, ya know. A part of me that wants this forever. But at the same time,” He dropped his gaze to his hands, weaving his fingers together in his lap. The flickering light of the television outlined him in guilt and worry, “It feels dirty. Wrong. Like we’re cheating him somehow.”

“I can’t help but think,” Jake’s voice was a rasp as he lifted his head enough for the electronic glow to catch the dark bags under his eyes and the frustrated tears sticking to his lashes, “I can’t help thinking that—that maybe if we’d tried a little harder to change him back then…then maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe it’s o-our f-f-f-ffffff—“ He broke off and took a deep, shaky breath, closing his eyes. A few tears escaped down his cheeks, “Maybe it’s our fault this happened. Maybe we did this to him because we didn’t t-try hard enough. We barely tried!”

“What? No, Jake, no,” Dan looped an arm around his friend’s shoulders, nudging the smaller man into his side and fretting over him, ever the Mom Friend, “Jake, buddy, this isn’t our fault. I mean, um, yeah, sure, maybe we could have worked a little more on the whole ‘changing Milo back’ thing but…but man,” Dan ran a hand through his hair, had to pretend it wasn’t shaking, had to pretend his eyes weren’t hot, had to ignore the way his chest tightened, “We were doing the only thing we could think of doing. What the Sumney’s did to Milo, Jake, that’s not on us. And if I could ever get my hands on them, I’d—“ He bit his lip, tried to breathe the hot fire of anger out through his nose.

Jake made a noise that might have been a chuckle if wasn’t for the snotty, watery sound of it caught in his throat, “Prison’s changed you.”

Dan huffed out a breathy laugh, “I think Milo’s change…probably changed all of us.”

———

Milo wretched, doubling over the toilet and heaving the contents of his breakfast into the bowl. He heaved in a breath, trying to fill his lungs, only to bend over and throw up again. Tears and snot and sweat smeared down his face as he choked and sobbed, stomach clenching so much it ached. His chest twinged in pain with every movement, his hands shaking, the acrid stench of bile and sour food stinging the back of his throat with the burn of stomach acid.

He wheezed, sagging against the lip of the toilet, his entire body trembling, panting with the effort he’d just exerted. Spittle dripped out of his mouth and down his chin and he couldn’t be bothered to wipe it away, his arms felt too weak to move. He felt like he’d been in the bathroom for hours, days maybe, just throwing up everything that was inside him until even his organs would come spilling out of his mouth and he’d actually be as hollowed out and empty as he felt. Milo pressed his sweaty forehead against the cold porcelain, taking deep breaths, wincing at the pain that wracked down his throat and stabbed through his chest. One trembling hand reached up and pawed at the handle until he managed to flush the evidence of his sickness away.

Then, just as he was starting to collect himself again, nausea swelled up his throat and he bent over the toilet again.

This time was different.

Milo felt the bile rise and he coughed, shuddering at the strings of spit that hung from his open jaw. He coughed again, trying to dislodge the sickening lump that was wedge in his throat, convulsing slightly as a fresh wave of tears blurred his vision. It felt as if he’d swallowed a rock. Panic made Milo’s heart flutter and he clenched the sides of the toilet bowl, desperately trying to make himself throw up, terrified of suffocating on his own vomit.

After what felt like a dizzying amount of time, he felt it slide up his throat and a pungent, sour-sweet made his tongue curl as he coughed and heaved and spat. And then he couldn’t stop coughing. He couldn’t stop and all he could do was hang onto the rim of the toilet seat and cry through his gagging as his body convulsed with wet hacks. His chest was on fire, both with the need for air and with the crushing push of his diaphragm forcing his lungs to expel air over and over and over again, his stomach clenching, his whole body shivering with cold sweat and exhaustion and terror.

Because what was coming out of his mouth now was not the remains of his breakfast.

It was a thick, viscous goo, black and an iridescent, poisonous purple. It clung with sticky threads to his lips and chin, oozing into the water like syrup and floating in clumps around on the surface. Milo sobbed, unable to tell if the stuff was actually moving or if it was just his tears blurring his vision.

He coughed again, harder, and tasted a metal tang through the sour-sweet.

Breathing heavily, wiping sweat from his face with a shaking hand and smearing away his tears, Milo blinked down into the toilet bowl.

A strangled whine escaped his and he pressed his hand over his mouth, tears bubbling over again when he saw the streaks of red amongst the black goo. He tried to call for his dads but all that came out was a weak croak of sound, his throat ruined after hours of coughing and vomiting. So, trembling like a leaf in the wind and clutching at his sweat soaked shirt, Milo stumbled to his feet and staggered out of the bathroom, slumping against the wall in the hallway as he tried to regain his breath. Once the floor stopped tilting under his feet, he started moving again.

It was so much effort just to walk from the bathroom to the sitting room where he knew Dan and Jake were watching television. Every inch of him was in pain; the tender skin on his chest pulsing with stinging heat, his throat raw, muscles spasming involuntarily, a bone deep ache settling into him in a way that bent his spine and bowed his head.

So focused was Milo on actually making it to his destination that he almost missed the shouted conversation happening at the front door.

He raised his head at the end of the hallway that opened into the foyer, gazing with bleary eyes at the scene.

Jake was standing in front of the open door, his narrow frame taking up the entire threshold, legs apart, fists clenched, back taut. He was facing away from Milo but the anger in his body language was obvious. Dan hovered at his shoulder, pulled back, but his presence enough to offer support should the need arise. On the front stoop was a woman Milo didn’t recognize but instantly didn’t like simply on the principle that she’d obviously pissed Jake off (a feat in and of itself).

That and her expression said “bitch” in bright neon letters.

And she was yelling at Jake.

No one yelled at Jake. Ever.

“--went to jail for kidnapping and you didn’t even have the decency to let your family know!?” She shrieked, “And then you go and risk everything just for some--some supernatural freak--” Milo flinched at the word, pressing himself against the wall.

“He’s not a freak, mom, he’s my son!” Jake shouted back and Milo quailed because he had never heard Jake raise his voice like that, had never heard so much disgust and anger burn the words that Jake was spitting with an unprecedented ferocity.

“Since when!?” Mrs. Pierly barked, getting right up into Jake’s personal space, her face a twisted mask of disappointed and rage, “Since when did you have a kid, Jacob!? I don’t care what he is, you let me into this house right now so I can sort this mess out. You have no idea what you’ve done!”

“I told you no!” Jake snarled in return, squaring up against her, his own boiling temper making him swell with hot and righteous fury, expanding his presence in a way Milo had never seen before, “You’re not setting foot in this house and you’re going to leave me and my family alone!”

The woman looked shocked for the briefest of moments but it quickly returned to her previous rage, “Your family?” She hissed between clenched teeth and Jake actually winced, “So help me, Jacob Pierly, I will drag you out of this house and I will make you remember who your family is. If I ever hear you--”

Milo coughed.

He didn’t mean to, he’d tried to suppress it, but the ache was just to much and he bent over, coughing into his hand as he leaned against the wall for support. Eyes watering, he looked up again to find the three adults staring at him. He shrank away under their collective gazes.

“Dad…?” His voice was a hoarse whisper that was much too loud in the silence.

“Milo...oh god, Milo, what happened!?” Dan abandoned his post by the door and ran over to crouch down in front of Milo. His large hands flitted helplessly over the boy’s body, panic written clearly on his face as he took in the sweat, the black smears, and the blood still clinging to Milo’s lips, “What happened, sweetie, are you okay? D-do we need to call the hospital? J-Jake, Jake, call the hospital, I--”

“Jacob--” Mrs. Pierly began but Jake only spat a tense “get out” at her and slammed the door in her face. His hands shook as he turned the deadbolt and lock before he hurried over to where Dan was carefully cradling a shivering Milo to his broad chest.

———

Hospital tests were inconclusive.

Jake muttered darkly about “inconclusive, I’ll show you inconclusive, kid’s vomiting blood, how the hell is that inconclusive” before slinking out of the room.

Dan stayed in the hospital room, his face in his hands, palms pressing his tears back into his eyes as he waited for Milo to wake up from his testing. Waited for Jake to cool down from a temper ignited by years of abuse being dragged back to the surface. Waited for the world to stop fucking the three of them over with things that were bigger than they could handle.

He’d been doing a lot of waiting lately.

———

The courtroom was a great deal warmer than the blustery winter outside, but Milo kept himself wrapped in the soft, thick blanket he’d had in the car. He felt safe in it, protected, like it was a barrier between him and the rest of the world.

Also it black with bright blue sharks on it and looked really cool.

He watched his own fingers stroke over the fur-like texture, the silky softness grounding and soothing against the hypersensitivity buzzing underneath his skin. Jake sat on one side of him in a suit, bouncing his leg up and down anxiously, and Dan was perched stiffly on his other side, constantly fiddling with the buttons on his dress shirt and glancing around the room as if he expected someone to attack them at any moment. Although, given how the press had bombarded them on the courthouse steps, this attitude was not unfounded.

Milo hadn’t looked up the entire time that sharp men in sharper suits had been discussing the circumstances of his...admission to the Facility and the subsequent imprisonment of Dan and Jake. He didn’t want to see how many people were looking at him, didn’t to see their faces, didn’t want to read the pity or curiousity in their eyes. He was just going to sit here and look sad and make everyone feel sorry for him and maybe they’d let them go and give Dan and Jake a bunch of money and everyone would forget about everything and it would all go back to the way it was supposed to be.

Except that it would never be the same and that was a truth he understand far more than he wanted to.

Milo Pierly-Fuller was not--and could never be--Milo Sumney.

And that was also the truth.

“The court calls Facility Doctor Orchid Pearce to the stand.”

Milo’s gaze jerked upwards without his consent and his eyes locked with those of the woman who had been at the head of all of his suffering. He found nothing but loathing and disgust there as she was led into the room and it made the world drop out from underneath him.

His insides turned to ice and the lines on his chest where the knife had cut through him burned, burned, burned cold fire and his hands were shaking, he was shaking, but he couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel anything. The courtroom was far away and he was floating helplessly in a vast, black space filled with whispered terrors and grasping hands that squeezed vice like against his frozen arms and dragged him away down dark corridors.

He felt the snag of the knife in his flesh, the pinch of needles in his neck, the surge of electricity cooking his nerves, the bite of leather straps against his wrists and ankles, the press of that fucking muzzle over his face. He felt each bruise, each touch, each sour gaze, burning like brands against his body. He couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not, nothing seemed substantial anymore and he could hear nothing except for the rushing in his ears.

Then he blinked and the world snapped back into focus hard enough to make him dizzy.

Milo stumbled and his legs gave out from under him, sending him crashing to the polished floor of an empty hallway. For one dreadful moment, he thought maybe he’d imagined his rescue from the Facility and the whole thing had been a dream. That was enough to make his breathing pick up again.

“Milo, I need you to listen to me, okay? Can you hear me? You don’t have to say anything, just nod yes or no. Are you hurt?”

Familiar voice but Milo’s brain still bristled with white noise and static. He shook his head.

“Are you okay?”

He shook his head again, staring at his blurry reflection in the cream and brown tiles of the empty hall.

“Can I touch you?”

Hesitation, and then the smallest of nods, a brief jerk of his head that sent his shoulders shuddering.

Cool, dry hands cupped his cheeks and tilted his head up so that he was looking into Jake’s warm but worried eyes, “Hey, buddy, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. I promise, Milo, you’re safe. Deep breaths. With me now.”

Milo struggled to make his breathing match Jake’s, breathing in and out until the world settled and the static was more like a dull ache in the back of his mind. Jake pulled him into a gentle hug, rubbing slow circles into the teen’s back as Milo clutched tightly at the man’s suit.

“What--?” Milo’s whispered voice cracked and he pressed his face into Jake’s shoulder. Speaking felt like a chore, like he was breaking rules that no one had ever explained to him. He felt as if he said anything else then the fragile serenity they’d managed to establish would shatter.

But Jake seemed to understand what he was trying to say, “You had a panic attack, Milo. It’s okay, I walked you out, Dan’s running interference back in the courtroom. I’m so sorry, we probably should have warned you that they were bringing her in today. It’s all right, we don’t have to go back if you don’t want to. I’m sure we can postpone this if you--”

“No,” Milo spat the word through gritted teeth, Jake’s collarbone digging into his forehead as he pressed himself against his dad, “No, I--I want this done. I want it over with. Gone. I’m--I’m sick of th-this, dad, I’m just--”

“Shh, shh, I know, hun, I know…”

———

Dan looked surprised when Jake walked back into the room with his hand on Milo’s back. They shuffled back into their seats, Milo pulling his blanket around him again and gripping it tightly. Jake kept a firm and protective arm around the teen’s shoulders and frowned at anyone who looked at them too long.

Things settled down, Dr. Pearce took the stand again, and Milo’s breathing only quickened a few times as they questioned her.

He wanted to puke when they showed pictures of him in the Facility, the emaciated state of his body, the sickly pallor of his skin, the dead look in his eyes. They showed x-rays and blood work and even photographs of his insides. The pictures of the vivisection cuts on his chest, gleaming with fresh staples, made his chest ache, and he pressed himself against this dad’s side, shivering. Dan was shaking too but when Milo glanced up at him and saw the thundercloud on the man’s face, he realized it was for a different reason.

And for some reason it made him feel safe.

———

Milo felt very alone and very far away in the witness stand, shaking and curled in on himself. He’d had to leave his blanket with Dan and Jake and it made him feel exposed and vulnerable. His hands clenched in his lap and he couldn’t stop the small whine of fear that crept out of him as one of the lawyers approached the stand.

“Milo Pierly-Fuller, can you please explain to the jury why Mr. and Mrs. Sumney had you committed to the Facility for the Exegesis of Abnormal Realities?”

“I...I, um,” Milo swallowed and cleared his throat, trying to speak up enough for the mic to pick up his words, “Th-they said--Dr. Pearce said it was to...to fix me. They t-tried to brainwash me and reverse whatever my h-hoodie did.”

“And what did your hoodie do to you?”

“I...I dunno. M-made me forget stuff, I guess. I don’t know the Sumneys. My dads--Dan and Jake--they raised me.”

He could feel the glares of the man and woman who called themselves his biological parents but refused to look away from the sword-shaped tie clip on the lawyer’s breast.

“And when this supposed brainwashing failed, what happened?”

Milo whimpered, choked it off and told himself he was safe as the memories swam to the surface, “I, um, they--they t-told me I was p-proper--property of the government. Told me I didn’t have any rh-rights. Then, uh, then they, um, they started experimenting on me.” He looked down at his hands, fingers clenched together so tightly his knuckles were white, icy fear clenching in his chest and making his scar sting. His stomach turned over as he felt phantom straps and needles digging into his skin,

“D-drugs and, um, cutting me o-open and...they kept doing it. They, um, the d-doctors at the hospital said...they said that some of the s-stuff they did to me was p-permanent,” He took in a deep, shaky breath, pressed the palm of his hand against his chest, trying to warm the cold burn of his tender scar, “They...they r-ruined my life…”

Tears blurred his vision and he couldn’t hold back the tidal wave anymore. He dropped his face into hands, shoulders shaking as he cried, words slurred and tangled as he spilled everything that had happened to him in the hands of Dr. Pearce and her staff.

He looked up only once to see the mortified faces of the jury and the devastated expressions of his dads.

When the judge called for a recess, Milo ran across the courtroom and threw himself into the waiting arms of Dan and Jake and cried brokenly until he thought he might pass out with exhaustion. He didn’t let go of their hands for the rest of the day.

———

They won the trial.

As much as something like that could be called a victory.

But the Facility was shut down, Dr. Pearce and all the staff that had been compliant with Milo’s torturous stay were sentenced to prison, and the government settled in for a series of long talks about how to handle the future of supernatural entities.

Dan and Jake took the hefty payout from the trial and turned their backs on the whole situation.

Cody tackled Milo into a tight hug on the courthouse steps and both boys would later vehemently deny that they had cried in each other’s arms.

Then they went out for dinner at some fancy steak joint and Milo had non-dairy ice cream for dessert because despite the cold, ice cream was always good for eating your feelings. Jake actually laughed, face flushed and head thrown back in a rare expression of pure joy. Dan made a smiley face in his mashed potatoes and filled the indents with gravy. Cody stole some of Milo’s steak fries and Milo stole some of Cody’s garlic tossed potatoes and they both stole salmon off of Dominic’s plate when they thought he wasn’t looking.

It wasn’t perfect, of course. Milo flinched at loud noises and he didn’t like sitting with his back to the room, Jake would begin to panic if he lost sight of Milo for too long, and Dan glared at anyone who got too close to the family’s personal space. It would take time and healing and careful words and probably therapy and medication.

But they were together again and they were trying.

And for now, that was enough.

[imagine-darksiders]

Guardian, pt 2.

Aaaaaat LAAAAAST! <3 

Really hit bad writer’s block recently, but tried to push through it with this fic. Not sure how to feel about it though. :/ 

----

Despite the arduous day you'd had; what with being shrunk by an ancient author who had a thing for practical jokes, had the life frightened out of you and suffered the emotional trauma of almost being crushed by an angel with a real distaste for humans; Sleep is surprisingly hard to come by.

Azrael's intricately decorated bed chambers are dark, comfortably warm, quiet and there's a gentle smell of clean cotton wafting up from the silky pillow that Nathaniel had carefully placed you down on. Yet still you toss and turn, comfortable but restless, worried and anxious. With a soft moan, you shuffle over yet again, turning to face the arched doorway, standing at which is your gargantuan, golden-armoured companion.

If you squint, you can make out Nathaniel's silhouette shifting every so often, his head swivelling this way and that around the room. With every sweep, he stills when he's facing the pillow and you can feel rather than see the pale gaze that rests on you for a long moment before it moves away once again. He must know you're still awake, especially since one of the reasons you're struggling to sleep had all but exploded down in Azrael's study not too long ago.

You'd no idea when the horseman actually arrived but you certainly knew of his presence when the relative peace and quiet was interrupted by a deafening uproar of, “She's WHAT!?”

You sprang upright in bed with a timid gasp and stared fearfully at the doorway, fully expecting Death to come charging in at any second, a whirlwind of agitation. But Nathaniel took one look at your diminutive, trembling form down there on the pillow and, with a protective rumble, planted himself squarely in the entrance, barricading it with his enormous bulk and impressive wingspan. Sending the back of his head a conflicted smile, you settle back into the soft pillow and pull the snip of Azrael's cloth up to your chin.

From what you can hear, there's a very one-sided conversation going on between Death and the archangel, the latter of whom is completely inaudible, even to your sensitive hearing. Whereas the former is so loud, you can hear him grumbling and ranting from all the way up here. 

And he does not sound happy.

A long bout of silence stretches into the night until, all of a sudden, there comes a loud thud from downstairs, sharp enough that Nathaniel visibly stiffens and reaches for his sword. Glancing over his shoulder, he sighs when you try to disguise a whimper as a cough and avert your gaze nervously.

Thunderous footsteps shudder the bed when he moves back into the room and stops beside you, where he slowly gets to one knee in an effort to be closer.

In the pale moonlight filtering through the door to the outer balcony, you can see the way Nathaniel’s eyes are etched with concern and shadowed heavily with distress. You swallow thickly, fighting the urge to slam your eyes shut in a vain attempt to dispel the inevitable wave of nausea at seeing such a huge mass suddenly loom into your entire field of view.

Noting your clenched jaw and how your hands are fiddling nervously with the light, silken bed sheet, the enormous angel slows his movements considerably, an effort that doesn’t go unnoticed. You smile appreciatively up at him, palms turning sweaty when his face lights up at the sight of it. 

 As though he were handling the finest china, he extends a finger to brush lightly down your bare arm. 

It’s a gesture he hopes is comforting. 

He’s seen Azrael use a similar technique on you whenever you’ve been upset in the past and with any luck, the familiarity will help to calm your nerves. In a gentle voice, he murmurs, “Will you be alright if I lend Azrael a hand in pacifying your horseman?” - and a part of you wants to laugh aloud that an angelic warrior of Nathaniel’s size and calibre is asking you for permission to leave. 

Panic spikes in your chest at the thought of being alone like this but you hate the fact that Azrael is currently having to deal with the irate horseman - alone - even more. Still, despite the creeping feeling of dread whenever you consider that you’re going to have to face your nephilim friend sooner or later, you rationalise that, out of anyone present, you’ve probably got the best chance of calming him down. 

After all, you’d been through a lot together. 

 Death had rescued you from your dying Earth, kept you alive at every turn. You’d even been to Hell and back together, literally. And then, when you thought you’d lost him forever, he came back to you. He could have just left you, alone and mourning, along with a newly restored humanity. But he had come back.

You’re hoping these facts would quell your newfound fear of the horseman, but although you trust him not to lay a finger on you, you’re still nervous. 

Regardless, you refuse to let your other friends deal with your mistakes by themselves. So, with jittery nerves and a warbling voice, you timidly lower the soft bed-cloth from your chin and gulp, looking up into Nathaniel’s inquisitive eyes. “Do...do you want me to come?” 

 You’re ashamed of the relief that washes through you when he immediately shakes his head. 

“No,” the angel responds, a little too sharply, “I don’t want him to-” Nathaniel hesitates, his mouth hanging open slightly as he searches your face. 

You stare up at him expectantly, cocking your head to the side.“Don’t want him to what?” 

 “…Nothing. It’s nothing,” he eventually sighs, ruffling your hair in a warm breath. Tapping the pillow beside you, he fixes you with one of his commanding frowns. “Now, stay here. You’re not to move.” 

 You stretch your neck up to peer over his arm at the long drop from Azrael’s pillow to the marble floor. “Duh.” 

 With a smirk, Nathaniel pushes himself to stand and turns, lumbering over to the door. Giving you one last, uncertain glance over his shoulder, the giant angel hurries from the room, calling softly, “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay…” Your quiet reply falls pointlessly into the dark chamber and is lost amongst the miles and miles of silken bedsheets. Somehow, the abrupt lack of  your mountain-sized friend manages to make you feel even smaller. His handsome grin doesn’t distract you from your diminutive stature and the heavy wings on his back no longer fill your ears with the pleasant sound of their rustling feathers. The shadows seem darker, longer and far more menacing. The one that appears on the balcony even seems to actually be moving. You fear that you may have been too hasty in your assumption that you’d be alright on your own for five minutes….

You blink, pressing yourself further into the pillow and your anxiety skyrockets as the dark shape on the floor begins to take on a proper, recognisable form. 

Swaying gently on the balcony’s arch, the thin, blue drapes do little to hide the enormous silhouette from view. It approaches them and your breath hitches when a hand slowly reaches out to pull the flimsy fabric out of the way.

A tall, winged figure, framed by moonlight, steps softly into the room and turns this way and that in clear search of something. On the bed, you’ve fallen deathly still, unable to breath and utterly incapable of making a sound through the thick terror clogging up your throat. 

“N -…Na- Nath!-” you whimper stutteringly, your breathing erratic and forced, especially as the stranger’s head snaps in your direction.

Pure, unadulterated horror chills you to the bone when the figure suddenly speaks in a voice like ice and hate that hisses softly through the bedchamber, flooding your body with chills and goosebumps.

That’s a voice you recognise.

“Hello again, little accident.”

-----

Azrael knows that you and Death are close. He knows of the bond you both share; the kind of bond that can only be forged through trials of fire, through surviving an impossible journey together and discovering that you've somehow become friends along the way.

But until the horseman arrived late that night and found out what happened to you, Azrael had no idea just how deep that bond ran.

“She's WHAT?!”

Death's outburst disturbs Dust from his perch upon his master's shoulder and sends him fluttering down onto the desk in the corner with a disgruntled squawk.

“Please, old friend,” the angel urges softly, motioning for Death to lower his voice, “She is well enough, in herself-”

“Well enough?” the other all but screeches, “According to you, she's no bigger than a rat!”

“Ah – Hmm, a mouse would be more accurate,” he corrects hesitantly, earning himself a heated glare, fierce enough to cow even the bravest of angels. But Azrael remains unfazed, instead drawing himself up and exhaling softly. “Horseman-”

Before he can get a word in edgeways, Death interrupts brusquely. “Where is she?”

The angel's eye twitches. “Hopefully she's managed to stay asleep.”

“Azrael-” Stepping forwards, Death growls impatiently “-Where. Is. Y/n?”

With another deep sigh, Azrael tries to placate the tempestuous horseman, although he can already tell he's fighting a losing battle. So, he strategically aims for Death's soft spot. “I will take you to her, gladly,” he promises, “just....not yet. You must understand, she's exhausted and needs to rest.”

Though the horseman's fiery glare does falter slightly, he shakes his hesitation off and snaps, “She can rest when I've seen for myself that she's alright.” Striding forward, he steps around the angel, heading for the door that leads to the rest of his lavish home. However, he doesn't get far before Azrael glides between him and the doorway, planting himself in a position that halts Death's approach completely. “If you must-” he says quickly as the horseman's eyes flash madly and his muscles tense and bulge, -then I can't stop you. Though there is something I must tell you first. I doubt Y/n will mention it and I'd rather you heard it from me..”

“What is it?”

Wings and brow drooping with worry, Azrael explains quietly. “Horseman, I'm afraid after her accident, Y/n was...attacked.”

Even though he fully expected some kind of violent reaction, he still flinches when Death's fist suddenly collides with the golden pillar beside the door, crunching the marble and causing cracks to spiderweb around his bandaged knuckle. The archangel hums, discontent as he glances at the ceiling. If you weren't awake before, you almost certainly would be now.

Slowly, eerily, Death pulls his hand back and inspects it for a moment, then gradually closes his long fingers into a tight fist, leather bindings creaking deafeningly in the silence. “I want. A name.”

Shaking his head, Azrael gives a regretful frown. “This is a Heavenly matter. Believe me, I am dealing with it. The only obstacle is that the culprit – blessedly - never managed to actually hurt Y/n and all we have is a biased witness in Nathaniel. The Council of Angels will want proof.”

“To Hell with your council,” the horseman snarls, “an angel threatened my charge, I would know his name!”

“Death, we are all eager for justice. Why, Nathaniel told me if Y/n hadn't been conscious or present, he'd have run her attacker through and been done with it.”

Death sneers behind his mask. “He should have. Y/n would've had no trouble watching them die.”

Knitting his slender eyebrows together, the angel gives him a stern frown. “That girl has seen enough death for a lifetime. You should know better than to dictate how much she should see.”

And Death can't quite respond to that.

So instead, he sighs and begins to ask if he can finally go and see you, but the sound of heavy, clanking armour approaching from the white staircase draws his attention.

Both turn to face the direction of the noise, only to find Nathaniel emerging from the candle-lit gloom of the hall. The broad-shouldered angel squeezes himself through the archway, forcing Azrael back into the main room.

“My Lord.” He bows his head, thumping a fist against his golden breastplate and addressing the taller angel. Though when he turns his steely gaze to Death, he appears troubled, eyeing the crater in the pillar. “Death.”

“Nathaniel.”

Swiftly, Azrael places a hand on the larger angel's forearm, asking in a hushed whisper, “Is everything alright?” His lips tug down worriedly. “Y/n...Is she -”

“She is fine.” The warrior claps the other angel reassuringly on the shoulder, at the same time shooting Death a frustrated huff. “She's trying to get some precious sleep.”

Fuming, the horseman glares between the two angels, attempting to keep his temper in check. Not for the first time, the rider is taken aback by his own behaviour. It's not as though he has any reason to worry about your safety anymore. Your journey with him had ended the moment he fell into the Well of Souls. So why hadn't he just left you alone to live out the rest of your days on Earth? Why didn't he stay away? If he weren't so cynical, he might admit what it really is. Friendship, plain and simple. After all, one doesn't go through the kind of things that you two have without growing closer as a result. He's come to learn to actually enjoy being around you. He becomes spiritless in your absence and apprehensive when you're in danger.

Death groans internally upon realising that this niggling feeling in his chest has only gotten worse now that he's learnt you're a mere three and a half inches tall. Wonderful.

A sharp hiss breaks the horseman from his musings and draws everyones' attention to the angry ball of ebony feathers perched on the desk. The crow is staring through the arch doorway, hopping up and down sporadically and flapping his wings in a frenzy as he continues to hiss and squawk like a bird possessed. In an instant, Death's head snaps towards the door as well and – like a missile - he hurtles through it, forcing Azrael and Nathaniel to fling themselves aside to avoid being bowled over.

“Horseman?” the angelic warrior blurts out, “what-”

“You left her alone!?” comes the outraged response. The two angels share a look of dawning dread before flying after Death, not bothering to waste time with stairs.

They both reach the top by the time he races through the bedchamber door and starts calling your name, a strained edge in his usually unflappable voice. A moment later, Nathaniel barrels into the room as well, heart in his throat. Azrael is close behind, his graceful features twisted into a picture of worry. Reflexively, the archangel sends a mental command into the room and light springs from seemingly nowhere, illuminating each dark corner in warm, white light. 

Suddenly, the angels find themselves barred from further advancement by the horseman's sinewy arms which are flung out to each side, forcing them into an abrupt halt.

Nathaniel opens his mouth, more than ready to demand that Death move aside but a soft gasp from Azrael gives him pause and he instead squints into the dark bed chamber, following the archangel's mortified stare with a growing feeling of dread.

What he sees brings his blood to an instant boil.

Kushiel is skulked beside the bed, one hand levelling a deadly-sharp halberd at the three newcomers whereas the other is clenched into a tight fist and held out before him like an affronting taunt.

Sandwiched right inside the crushing grip, writhes a tiny, helpless human. Only your head and shoulders are visible, poking out the top of his hand.

Even across the room, Nathaniel's keen ears pick up on your rapid, wheezing breaths and the little grunts you make as you thrash weakly and desperately in a fruitless effort to dislodge yourself. Tiredly, your eyes flicker from Azrael, down to Death before finally roving up to meet the wide, blazing glare of Nathaniel.

The angel holding you increases the pressure after you manage to raggedly squeak out, “G...gu...guys?”

It's the sheer volume of fright and pain in your voice that kicks their instincts into overdrive.

From his newfound perch on the frame at the bottom of the bed, Dust caws and squawks agitatedly, digging his talons into the silver metal. 

The chamber fills with static in response to a sudden surge of magical energy that emanates from Azrael's crackling fingertips and dances across his palms. Death drops his arms in favour of grabbing the scythes hanging from his belt, eyes flashing a bright, burning orange and the hate filled glare he's sending Kushiel is so laden with carnal desire, the sight of it makes you want to cower behind the angel's thumb.

Finally, there's Nathaniel.

In all the time you've known him, you've never seen the warrior scared. You've seen him worried, certainly. Anxious. Apprehensive. Even shaken. But never had there been a day that you looked at him and found fear.....Until now.

His eyes - always so unfaltering in their strength – lock you in a gaze and his breath catches. Terror? No – something more like torment spirals up from his stomach and into his throat, stealing the words back from the tip of his tongue. A desperate plea that you be let go dies when the crushing reality of this situation barrages his consciousness. 'If he kills her-' He struggles for breath. '- it'll be all. My. Fault.'

Silence stretches on for an eternity. None of your friends dare move, Kushiel's head is whipping to keep each of them in his sights, refusing to give them any sort of opening whilst you can only take deep, gulping breaths and try to push past the pain in your ribs, fighting to stay conscious for lack of oxygen.

After another beat of quiet, it's eventually Death who speaks. “Now, I've never been one for dramatics,” he says light-heartedly, pulling a snort from the almost blacked-out human, “but if you don't let her go, I promise you – there will be nowhere you could run that I wouldn't find you. There isn't a hole deep enough to hide you from my wrath. You touch one hair on that human's head, and I swear – by the time I'm done - you'll be begging me to throw you to Oblivion.”

You sob in distress when Kushiel moves his thumb on top of your head and presses down. Hard. Azrael gasps and Nathaniel cries out abruptly, “Stop that! You're hurting her!” while Death blinks, compulsively letting go of one scythe and stretching his sinuous hand out towards you.

Angry, cornered and mad with a fleeting pinch of power, the angel gives Death a twisted grin. “So, the rumours are true... The mighty reaper - Death himself - has gone soft!”

Choosing to ignore the attempt to bait him, Death mutters to Azrael, “Am I right in assuming that this is the angel who attacked Y/n before?”

The archangel nods slowly.

“Marvellous. Saves me hunting him down behind your back.”

His eyes never leaving yours, Azrael lifts his hands and spreads his fingers wide, a gesture meant to soothe your cornered captor.“Put the human down,” he softly urges, “and this goes no further....”

“This?” Kushiel hisses as he shakes his fist, jostling you around violently. “What this is....is sick!” “You should never have allowed this one to desecrate the White city!”

“Desecrate it!?” Nathaniel laughs harshly, “She helped save it!”

You begin to struggle again as Kushiel's grip tightens exponentially and he snarls, although he doesn't offer a retort because even he – deluded as he is – cannot deny that fact. Jamaerah the Scribe doesn't lie.

“What madness has claimed you?” Azrael shakes his head, “Humanity is not our enemy, why do this?”

Disturbingly, Kushiel's tongue darts out to lick his lips. “They are beneath us, Azrael. They do not deserve the privilege of walking among giants.”

“Because they are a younger species?” the archangel attempts to reason, "Kushiel, I have long since been taught that we are not so superior as we may want to believe. Trust me, this human is every bit our equal.”

“This one's presence is an insult to our kind. There are those of us who remember when we were worshipped by these miserable whelps, not comparable to them.”

Azrael, Death and Nathaniel all stiffen when Kushiel tosses you into the air before snatching you out of it again roughly with a smug laugh. A gasp of agony escapes you at the rough treatment and the hard press of his fingers against your fragile sides.

You're getting really tired of being thrown around like a rag doll and belittled by this guy. “You can punish me after she's dead,” he smirks, squeezing hard enough to make you shriek, “you can even kill me. But in the end, Heaven will thank me for this.”

“You're insane!” Nathaniel bellows, shifting clunkily on his feet, uncertain whether he should risk diving straight in or not.

Kusheil laughs, “No, Nathaniel. I am enlightened. And you will be too, starting with this one's death!” In an instant, you find yourself being held high above the triumphant angel’s head whilst he cackles madly. 

So far, you have had a really terrible day. 

But damned if you're going down without a fight.

“Alright! That's it!” you manage to hiss through gritted teeth, “I did not survive the end of the goddamn world – only to get crushed by some asshole angel with a major superiority complex!” Your volume increases with each word and at the very apex of your outcry, you lurch forwards and sink your teeth deep into the exposed flesh of Kushiel's thumb.

You suppose it was the shock of an unexpected assault rather than any real pain that caused him to screech and reflexively fling you away from him, across the room.

The effect is instantaneous. Letting out an almighty roar, the angel all but tosses you across the room....and in the blink of an eye, the room bursts into a flurry of motion.

Death – eyes trained on your swiftly falling body – dives forward with arms outstretched and at the same time, Nathaniel lunges around him towards Kushiel. Azrael, having anticipated that the horseman would prioritise catching you, sends a spear of thick, magical energy right at Kushiel's head. It hits the angel square in the face, snapping his head back and giving Nathaniel enough time to body-slam him into the far wall with both wings and nostrils flaring furiously.

The sensation of falling is just as horrifying as you imagined it would be. For a long while – too long – there is only the rushing air, gut-wrenching panic and a high pitched keening that you suddenly realise is emanating from your throat. And then, after what feels like an eternity spent in free-fall, you at last hit something solid and cold.

But it isn't the ground.

Whatever it is dips when you land on it, following the line of your descent so as to soften the impact. Despite the extra effort, you still end up with the wind knocked out of you.

Trembling from over-brimming adrenaline, you gradually start to become aware of several voices all booming above you, though your ears are ringing, your head is nauseatingly reeling and your ribs feel like they're on fire. Softly, you moan and crack your eyes open, blinking blearily down at your hands. A rush of relief has you shaking even more violently. You're alive! You touch a hand to your chest and gush out a breathless laugh, regretting the action almost instantly due to the pain in your ribs. High overhead, someone is urgently rasping your name.

Unfortunately, upon looking up, the relief in your chest is quickly snuffed out and replaced with a spike of apprehension.

Two bright, unwavering eyes that glow like twin pools of molten lava stare back at you.

Swallowing audibly, you drop your gaze to the pale, elongated fingers cupped beneath you as you wither under the reaper's heavy glare. You're embarrassed to find yourself wishing for Nathaniel's steady hands instead. The angelic warrior is at least predictable, often deliberate and he has always – always – been nothing but gentle and warm with you, even before you were struck with this shrinking hex. Death, however, is a little less calculable. He just....lacks Nathaniel's integrity and Azrael's kindly gentleness. You trust Death - you'd trust him with your life. But standing at barely four inches tall, it's hardly any wonder that your survival instincts perceive Death as a threat – because in truth – that's what he is, what he's always been.

And so, your breathing comes heavier and you work yourself into another small panic, too anxious to meet the horseman's eyes.

For a moment, Death just cradles your heaving body with cupped hands, staring down at you, content in the knowledge that you're alive.

A strained grunt breaks his unnerving calm. Slowly, he drags himself around to find the intruder held fast against the wall by the much larger Nathaniel.

Carefully transferring you to one hand, Death uses the other to draw his scythe and stalks dangerously across the room, lifting it high above his head as he reaches Kushiel, seconds from bringing the blade down between his yellow eyes.

“Horseman, stop!” Azrael's voice rings out, halting him in his tracks.

Through gritted teeth, Death tilts his head slightly, though his fierce stare never leaves your attacker. “What reason,” he seethes, “could you possibly have for defending this...this murderer?”

Calmly, as if he's trying to soothe a wild animal, the archangel approaches and meets your eyes from Death's hand. His eyebrows knit together and he pulls his lips into an apologetic grimace, replying, “Believe me horseman, I want this angel punished as much as you do -” He frowns at Death's skeptical snort. “ - but it is not our place to decide if he lives or dies. He will be put to trial, at the very least.” The angel's gaze turns soft and you feel as though he's speaking predominantly to you now. “He will not escape punishment.”

Nathaniel remains unusually quiet, his heavy chest pressing harder into Kushiel's and he bares his teeth close to his face.

“A trial!?” Death barks, “He should be executed. And how fitting that his executioner should already be here....” The hand holding you grows colder at his words. Or perhaps its just your imagination.

Before he can advance further though, Azrael speaks again. “Death, this is a time of peace. The first moment in a long, long time that we aren't all at each other's throats. If you – a rogue horseman – kill this angel without grounds, then I cannot protect you from the repercussions.”

“I don't need your protection, Azrael,” Death growls, “and neither does he deserve it! He tried to kill my -” Death pauses to glance down at you. There's something tender in his eyes that almost puts your mind at ease. “ - my friend,” he finishes quietly, sounding surprised at himself.

If you hadn't been shrunk by a mischievous, angelic author from the past, you'd say that was the most shocking thing to happen today. Although you knew the horseman considered you a friend, he'd never really admitted it...Not aloud and certainly not in front of witnesses.

You stare up at him - awed - if not still completely unnerved.

Kushiel coughs roughly, shoving against Nathaniel but merely getting crushed against the wall again by his impressive bulk. “Alas, I did not kill your pet human,” he spits, lips curled into an ugly snarl, “

He flinches when the warrior cracks his fist into the wall inches from his head. “Don't you dare insult her!”

Death raises his scythe again.

“This is not the way we do things here,” Azrael urges softly.

For a long, tense moment, the reaper stands there, poised for a kill and the room holds its breath.

Azrael hovers to his left, eyebrows furrowed in disapproval. Nathaniel has his forearm pressed up against Kushiel's throat as he moves slightly to the side to make room for the horseman's blow, the promise of murder in his pale eyes. The pinned angel – for the first time – is staring hard at the scythe, something in his expression that rather satisfyingly resembles fear.

And finally, the horseman moves his fervid gaze down to you, where you hang in his delicate grip. There's an uncomfortable pang in his chest when he sees that you're staring at him in much the same way as Kushiel is.With barely disguised horror.

Under that innocent gaze, Death falters. With a quiet sigh, he lets his eyes slip shut and at last, lowers his scythe. As soon as he does, everyone else lets out a deep breath.  

Apparently, the diffusion of the immediate danger makes Kushiel keen to push his luck because he sneers down at you and manages to choke out around Nathaniel's arm, “This is not a victory, gnat! The council of angels has no love for humanity either. They will rule in my favour and the next time we meet, your guardians may not be around to protec- GACK!”

He's swiftly cut off by a gigantic fist that collides with the side of his skull and knocks him completely unconscious in a single, ferocious punch.

With a low moan, he slumps forward as Nathaniel takes his hand back, pressing a kiss to his knuckles and stepping aside, allowing the limp body to collapse to the ground in an undignified heap.

“Nathaniel,” Azrael scolds, though even he can't quite keep the amused lilt out of his voice. Huffing, the warrior merely rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck, muttering hotly, “He had it coming.”

Now that the threat has been (somewhat) neutralised, Death returns his focus to you. He notes that your breathing is shallow and comes in quick, sputtering bursts and you have your arms wrapped loosely around your ribs, face scrunched up in obvious pain.

“Y/n?” A voice at his back has the horseman's eyes narrowing to savage, orange slits and he abruptly whirls about, rounding on Nathaniel. “You. Left. Her!” he seethes, long fingers caging over your head and trapping you between his palms.

Ignoring the nearly imperceptible pounding of little fists at his fingers, Death's head lowers and he hunches his shoulders predatorily, glowering at the shame-faced angel, who opens his mouth and tries to respond. However, nothing of any substance comes out following the realisation that he actually agrees with Death.

“...Yes,” he murmurs defeatedly, never taking his eyes off the horseman's clasped hands, “I did.” Despite his honest response, Death isn't finished. “What if she'd been killed?”

“Horseman,” Azrael calls, the only one not deaf to your quiet, wheezing pleas for release. Ignoring his warning, Death jerks his head to the archangel. “You said this will last no more than a few days?”

“I – well, yes. But Death, you -”

“Good. I'm taking her with me.”

The sound of both angels protesting drowns out your own gasp.

“Now, be reasonable-.”

“No! You can't!”

He appraises the both of them cooly, eyebrows raised. “I'm sorry, I hadn't realised you two had become the authority on this.”

Nathaniel's entire posture shifts from desperate to defensive in the blink of an eye. Wings flared and jaw set, he takes a heavy step towards Death. “Don't you take her from m-” He spares Azrael a side-long glance. “...from us.”

At last removing one of his hands and transferring you securely into a fist, the horseman stabs a long, slender finger up at the warrior's face. “Don't you presume to dictate what I can and cannot do,” he seethes dangerously, “I did not spend months trying to keep this human alive just to lose her to your neglectful incompetence.”

Nathaniel bristles but whatever retort he may have had is cut short by Azrael exclaiming, “Death, for Heaven's sake, loosen your grip!”

The two warring parties whip their heads down to look at you.

Tiny fingers scrabble weakly against the tough hide of Death's curled thumb. A little chest heaves in and out raggedly, incapable of making a full inhale and a pair of watery eyes stare into his imploringly.

And you're shivering fit to burst.

The cold of Death's hand does very little to help your body recover from the shock it's gone into after almost having been killed by Kushiel. Wincing disconcertedly, the horseman unfurls his fist and glides over to the bed, sliding you slowly from his palm onto the soft sheets. He kneels close, steeling his hollow heart against the way you drag yourself backwards to put some distance between yourself and that intimidating, enormous bone-mask.

Watching the display with sad eyes, Azrael turns to give Kushiel a distasteful glance before beckoning to Nathaniel. “I don't suppose you'd mind bringing him to the barracks? I shall accompany you - of course - and explain what... what occurred.” Nathaniel nods and stoops to grab the downed angel by his arms. Suddenly, a shrill voice cries out, “Wait!” startling him into roughly dropping the body.

All three of them swivel about to face you, staring expectantly.

Embarrassed, sore and ashamed of yourself for your onset cowardice, you twist your face away from Death, avoiding his gaze entirely. “Can...can Nathaniel stay instead?” You squeeze your eyes shut rigidly, whispering, “Please?”

The horseman blinks in rapid succession, an objection or even an outright refusal catches on the tip of his tongue as he stares at you, not hurt – per se – but he does look...lost. Or perhaps 'abandoned' would be more apropos.

“Of course,” the angel in question breathes, stepping around Kushiel to move beside the quiet horseman. He reaches out a bare hand and gently rests the tips of his fingers on your back to prop you up. You miss the huff of air that Death releases as he pushes himself to stand. Without a word, he stalks over to the unconscious angel and throws him unceremoniously over his shoulder like a clanking, metal sack of potatoes. Urgently, you feel the need to apologise, to explain yourself. But the words just sound hollow and empty in your mind. What on Earth could you say? 'Hey Death, sorry but I can't be around you right now because you're too capricious and I don't feel safe with you whilst I'm this small?'

It'd offend him greatly.

So instead, it's with a heavy heart that you watch your friend stroll past Azrael and out through the chamber door with Dust fluttering down onto his shoulder as he goes, not once even sparing you a glance.

‘Fair enough,’ you miserably think, blinking up at the teal-robed angel who seems to have drifted close to you without you really noticing, an elegant hand resting delicately over his heart. You notice his eyes sweeping over you with impressive speed and acuity - not so subtly assessing the damage. 

When you squirm under the excessive study, pain lances up your sides and you’re unable to catch the undignified grunt that leaps up your throat. Azrael winces and extends a finger to touch it briefly against your shoulder. “I am sorry. I want to heal your pain.” One of Nathaniel's fingertips ghosts gently over your ribs. “But at your current size, I fear my magic's potency could do more harm than good.”

“It's alright,” you cough, your sides protesting the motion, “Nothing's broken...I think. Just bruised.”

Neither of them look comforted by that in the slightest. If anything, the archangel's eyebrows fall even further down his forehead.

“Look, I’ll be okay. I have Nathaniel with me...” you trail off and bite your lip, looking out through the arched doorway. As an after thought, you shyly ask, “D’you think he’ll be alright?” indicating after Death. 

The archangel hums, disconcerted. Looking down at you, his lips tilt into a reassuring – if uncertain – smile. “Worry not, I’ll speak with him,” he pauses, then quietly adds, mostly to himself, “...

if

he's in the mood to listen..” Gracefully, he drifts after the horseman but not before stopping in the doorway to cast a sorrowful look over his shoulder.

“Hmm,” he grumbles, “I shall be back shortly. Nathaniel, if there's any trouble while I'm gone, find a healer – but don't leave her alone. Keep her still and rested. Above all, keep her safe.”

Despite the dulcet tone, there's an edge to his voice that unsettles your stomach. The warrior must have felt it too, because he inclines his head to stare at the hem of Azrael's long robes rather than meet his stern gaze. “Aye,” is all he utters.

And with that, Azrael folds his wings regally across his back and disappears through the door after Death.

In the dimly lit room, you heave a sigh that's equal parts relief and exhaustion.

Nathaniel keeps his head down, eyes fixed on the edge of the bed rather than you. Eventually, you give up trying to catch his gaze and settle on shifting your stance, trying to alleviate the throbbing in your torso. Pursing your lips, you tap a finger against the sheets, glancing at the monumental hand that rests too far for you to reach. The longer you go without saying something to him, the longer he has to try and blame himself. “It wasn’t your fault,” you call as casually as possible. 

A heavy sigh is all that answers as it slips from between his full lips and washes over you, gentle as a warm breeze.

"Nobody could have known that Kushiel would-” 

“I made a mistake-” the goliath suddenly forces out through gritted teeth. His hands curl into fists on the bed, pulling the pale scars taught across the surface of his skin. Finally, he drags his gaze up to meet yours. “-and it almost got you killed.” With a metallic clang, his shoulders slump and wings droop to the floor. 

The sight might be adorable if it wasn’t so tragic.

With a grunt, you push through your discomfort to crawl over to one of Nathaniel’s hands and give one of the small, white scars a soft pat, smiling up at him. “Buuuut, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

The warrior scrutinises you for a moment before shaking his head. “But you almost weren’t....I am unfit to be your guardian,” he croaks.

This time, you smack your hand against his knuckle, although it’s hard, you’re sure he barely felt it. “Hey,” you call, “Look at me.” 

Nathaniel’s hesitates but eventually turns his flinty gaze back to you, surprised to find that your eyebrows are pulled together insistently and a forgiving smile is lifting your cheeks. “Look at me. I’m fine - well. You know....mostly.” His expression wilts, urging you to continue. “You’re a good person, Nathaniel! And you always have the best intentions. You were just trying to help Azrael, you can’t blame yourself for things that are beyond your control.” 

Subtly, he quirks a knowing brow at you. “Much like you shouldn’t blame yourself for the hex?” 

You snort scornfully, crossing your arms. “Oh no, that was pure idiocy. I could’ve just not opened the book. You couldn’t help that Kushiel is a complete psychopath.” 

He peers down at you for a while, his expression hard and unreadable. Then, just as you’re about to speak up, he reaches up to self-consciously rub at the scar beneath his eye and asks, “So....You would still trust me? Even though I wasn’t here to protect you when you needed me?” 

Embarrassment flushes across your face and you have to dodge his sincere look. “Yeah! Course I do!” you mumble awkwardly, “You’re my friend! So...so I guess I.... -you know- I’ll always need you, or whatever..” 

And despite the cold ache of guilt that gnaws at his resolve and the horseman’s words still ringing in his ears, Nathaniel blinks once, then slowly returns your smile. There isn’t a trace of blame in your eyes and you still want to be his friend. His self pity can wait until you’ve returned to your normal stature. For now, he’ll just have to be satisfied with making sure you’re comfortable. 

Speaking of which -

“Hey, easy. Be careful,” he urges as you start getting to your feet, “Azrael said you need to-”

“Oh, Azrael's just being a worry-wort. I'm pretty sure no bones are broken and I'm perfectly capable of standing on my own.” Your shallow laughter rings delicately in his ears, pulling his brows into a deep frown.

“You're hurt,” he rumbles with a sigh, “You always seem to be getting hurt.” Regardless, he proceeds to lower his impressive head until his chin almost brushes against the silk. At the closeness and the hugeness, your heart starts to hammer once again, roughly jolting your sides with each beat. Shoving your apprehension (and sore ribs) aside, you step bravely up to the angel's face, peering dazedly into his endlessly emotive, milky-white eyes. Hesitantly and slower than a glacier, he tilts his chin down so that you can reach out to rest a minuscule hand on the bridge of his nose. He has to resist the urge to sigh contentedly. Every time you engage him in an tender act, no matter how small you are, he revels in it. Angels are not altogether openly affectionate creatures, even amongst one another. It felt as though they each have a quota for how much they could give in one day and they are all severely rationing it. Until you came along with your odd, Earth ways and your affinity for touching, he hadn’t realised just how starved for it he’d really been. Nathaniel squeezes his eyes shut with a grin. 

“Thank you,” you smile earnestly, “for saving me.”

Blinking, the angel exhales softly through his nose and murmurs, “You saved yourself.” The pair of enormous lips graze against your clothes as he talks. “That was quick thinking, what you did. And it was extraordinarily brave. All I did was apprehend Kushiel..” He pulls his mouth up into a grimace at the memory of you sailing down towards the hard ground. "Death was the one who caught you though..And I must ask-” Here, he pulls away slightly, causing your hand to slide down his nose to stop on the tip. “Why did you choose to stay with me? Why not the horseman? I was under the assumption that you two were close friends?” 

“We were!” you flinch back, dropping your hand, “I mean, we are! I..ugh - I don’t know!” The outburst sends pain shooting up your back, so - far more slowly and quietly - you take a step back from Nathaniel’s face to rub your temples. “I just...I just wanted you, okay?” Pausing, you stretch your lips into a thin line, looking to the doorway. “I just hope Death’s not too angry with me...” 

“Come now,” the angel chuckles, “You’ve seen him angry, yes? That was not anger.” 

“Well, disappointed then. I hate that I couldn’t even hide that I was scared of him.” 

“I think it’s only natural,” Nathaniel shrugs his impressively wide shoulders, causing the bed to creak with the movement, “Your mind perceives a threat and fear is the response. And your instincts don’t lie; the horseman is dangerous.”

Frustrated, you lower your head, muttering, “Not to me, he’s not....and I know that.. So why don’t I feel like it?” 

The angel opens his mouth to say something else but, out of tired desperation, you stretch up and quickly place your hand on the corner of his upper lip, causing him to fall silent. “Can...can we just drop it?” you murmur, ashamed to have admitted, aloud, that you’re afraid of your best friend. “Please?” 

Nathaniel’s jaw snaps shut at your touch. He takes in how hard you’re trying to remain standing and how your eyes have become watery and unfocused, pointed at your own feet. 

“....Alright,” he exhales softly, earning himself a grateful smile. 

You blink when he stands again and reaches up and begins unfastening the clasps on his chest-plate and shoulder pauldrons. He pulls off each, heavy piece of armour with expert precision, even stooping to unclip the leather straps that keep his thigh-guards in place until at last, he stand before you, a veritable mountain of a man, in only a thin, white, sleeveless undershirt and a pair of loose-fitting, brown trousers. The sight would be impressive if you were at your regular height. As it is, you just about stop your jaw from dropping. Hundreds of feet of brown muscle tower above you, nearly every limb harbouring pale scars of varying length and depth. He raises a brow when he catches you staring and smiles warmly at the way you quickly jerk your head to the side and stare at the wall instead.  

With that, he rests his hand on the bed, palm up and watches carefully as you crawl tentatively into the centre and sit down, sighing in contentment at the sensation of being utterly secure. Safe in the warm hold of your gigantic companion, you try to fight a losing battle against the lull of sleep, made even more difficult because the angel keeps using the fingertips on his other hand to rub small circles into your back through the thin shirt. 

Nathaniel stands slowly, turning around and sinking down onto the bed. Briefly, he wonders if Azrael will mind him putting his boots on the bed sheets before giving a mental shrug and laying back against the pillows, keeping you steady in his hand until he releases you delicately onto his shirt. You never imagined you’d be sitting on your favourite angel’s chest, separated from his hot skin only by a thin piece of cloth, yet here you are. 

The warrior studies your face for a while as he raises a hand and begins to rub tiny circles into your back with the very tips of his fingers. You realise too late that he’s trying to get you to nod off, obviously conscious of the stress today has put you through. Already you can feel the alluring spell of sleep tug at your eyelids. Using his forefinger, he guides you onto your stomach and hushes you when you try to push back against the heavy weight only to grunt at the pang in your ribs. 

“Don’t fight me.” His rumbling voice vibrates in his chest and hums beneath your hands, followed by the booming, slow thumps of his heartbeat which lulls you further into lowering your head onto his shirt, too finished with the day to put up much of a protest. 

Long after you’ve fallen asleep, Nathaniel’s smile remains etched across his face, happier than he’s been in a long time to be able to hold you so close. 

He only hopes Azrael can smooth things over with Death and the Council of Angels quickly and relatively easily, for your sake. If Kushiel goes free, the angel may have no choice but to allow the horseman to take you away. .. . .

[hellomynameised1]

A Human in the Dominion

I have no idea how posting short stories works here on Tumblr, but I would like to contribute to this site at least once, to see if perhaps even one person might enjoy what I’ve written. This is a short little thing I wrote on impulse regarding my Breton Templar, Rolando, working through the Aldmeri Dominion questline as part of Cadwell’s Silver. Enjoy!

A dark veil had passed over Auridon, putting the entire Dominion and even the Queen herself in peril for many weeks, perhaps even longer, before being lifted. Now the Dominion was saved and the Queen’s reputation was no longer at immediate risk. Battlereeve Urcelmo thought he’d have been more at peace knowing that the Veiled Heritance, that group of radical extremists bent on destroying the Dominion that his Majesty Queen Ayrenn had built, had been destroyed. He should have been elated that the Heritance leader in Auridon, a traitor to the Crown and to the Dominion, had been slain by one of Queen Ayrenn’s own Eyes, and that the very Eye had promised to visit the Dominion Capital of Elden Root in Grahtwood, Valenwood to search out and destroy any possible subversion to the Crown. And yet…

“This one thinks you should enjoy your brandy before it gets too warm in its cup, Battlereeve, instead of searching for answers within its depths.”

Urcelmo suddenly realized he’d been staring into his drink. The Altmer lifted his dark eyes and turned his stern gaze upon his new drinking companion, before bowing his head at the Khajiit; it was easy to recognize that fiery red crest of hair he sported, as well as his sleek black leathers belonging to agents of Queen Ayrenn. “Razum-dar. What brings you to Skywatch today of all days? More business?”

“Depends on what you refer to as business, Battlereeve.” The Khajiit coolly brought a glass of wine up to his lips and tilted it back for a sip. When the glass came away he was smirking at Urcelmo, leaning back against the wall before looking back to the rest of the room. The two were in The Barbed Hook, a tavern overlooking the docks in Skywatch, and they were hardly alone. It wasn’t a fancy place but Urcelmo knew the bar always had a good brew on tap here. Now, dozens of the First Auridon Marines and local guards were reveling in drink and song over the good news of the Veiled Heritance’s defeat.

“Razum-dar came here of his own volition,” the Khajiit continued, lazily swirling the glass of wine in his hand as he nursed his drink. “The Veil hanging over Auridon has been lifted after over a month of subterfuge and hard-fought battle. This one thinks he has earned the right to a drink or two. But he has also come for… surveillance purposes. A duty which I think you have taken upon yourself as well, Battlereeve.”

Urcelmo’s gaze met the Khajiit’s, before turning back to the room, eyes flickering over a pair of drinking Marines at a table and a small group of guards singing a raunchy song. His dark gaze finally fell upon a pair of figures at the opposite end of the room, having taken places at the bar. He recognized both figures. Jimila, the Khajiit Captain of the brig known as The Prowler, was knocking back a tall mug of frothy beer. Her drinking companion, however, truly stood out from the crowd. The young human called himself Rolando and claimed to be Breton. He was clad in armor fit for a true Dominion soldier; most notable were his cuirass of metal plates overlaying a thick and flexible aketon with the Aldmeri Eagle soaring on the plastron, and a longsword of High Elven make resting at his hip. When the Khajiit Captain had finished her mug of beer, the human raised his own in a short salute before knocking back his own beer.

Razum-dar chuckled. “You have taken an awful interest in the human, Urcelmo. I should warn you that he does not enjoy the company of menfolk like he enjoys that of women.”

The Battlereeve blinked once in shock then turned to give Raz an affronted look. “That isn’t what I was thinking of at all, you utter pervert.”

“Then what is on your mind, Battlereeve?” Raz asked, watching the Breton and Khajiit drinking themselves into a stupor.

“He shouldn’t be drinking,” Urcelmo muttered quietly in answer. “He is the Queen’s Eye, and look at him getting drunk with Captain Jimila. The Queen has sent him on a mission to Grahtwood! He needs to be more professional about his duty!”

Razum-dar didn’t reply immediately, instead taking a moment to carefully sip his wine and weight his words before glancing back at the Altmer. “You would not deny one of your own soldiers a bit of fun drinking after a particularly hard-fought battle. Even you have been known to indulge in the local brews on your down-time. Meanwhile, the human Eye has fought hard battles and claimed hard-won victories for the Dominion across the entire island for months, with little time for rest in between each battle.”

The Khajiit now turned back to watching his fellow Eye savoring his victories with the Captain. “If anything, I believe that he is the single person who most deserves to have this moment of reprieve from being a messenger boy, or a covert operative, or a butcher of the Dominion’s foes.”

Urcelmo stared long and hard at Razum-dar, before turning back to looking into his port. “No,” he admitted at length, “I wouldn’t be so harsh on the boy if he were an Altmer.”

Razum-dar snorted quietly. “And we just finished eradicating a group of extremist bigots who wanted only Altmer purity in the Dominion. There is irony in this, Raz thinks.”

Urcelmo gave Raz a cold look. “Do not compare me to those utter heretics and traitors to the Crown. My loyalty is unquestionable. It’s just…”

Here, the Battlereeve faltered. He glanced uncertainly at Raz, who simply gave a shake of his head and a wave of his hand. “Speak freely, Battlereeve. I would like to hear what thoughts you have on our human friend over there.”

Urcelmo looked back over to the Breton, who has listing heavily to one side on his stool now as he watched Captain Jimila emptying another mug down her gullet.

“Hearts and minds,” the Battlereeve said quietly at last. “That’s the essence of Queen Ayrenn’s strategy to maintain cohesion in our fragile Dominion. She seeks to win the hearts and minds of her subjects so that they believe in the Dominion and its strength of unity as strongly as she does. It is that strength that will give us the edge we need to win the war on the mainland. And we both know what the Dominion’s agenda as a whole is.”

He took a sip of his port, savoring the strong, malty drink for a few quiet moments before clearing his throat. Raz kept his silence, waiting for Urcelmo to continue. At length, the Battlereeve spoke again. “The races of Men are young and foolish, driven purely by emotion and lacking the wisdom granted by age.”

“The Altmer, the Bosmer and the Khajiit share the common traits of intelligence, patience and reason,” Raz remarked, nodding slowly, with that undefinable quality to his voice of someone quoting something. “We do not seek riches or plunder. Domination is not our goal, nor is the acclamation of power for its own sake. Today we make our stand. Today we take back the Ruby Throne, which is ours by ancient right and the blessings of the Divines. Stand with us.”

Battlereeve Urcelmo nodded back; so Raz had remembered the words of Queen Ayrenn’s speech as well. The Altmer scratched at his sparse gray beard as he watched the Breton struggling to finish his next pint, his pale human skin flushed bright pink with warmth; although it was harder to tell in the case of the Captain, it was clear both were quite literally in high spirits.

“Queen Ayrenn has made it the Dominion’s mission to claim the Ruby Throne from the capricious whims of Men,” said the Altmer, “and yet she has all but made a Breton one of her champions. The very fact of the matter is that this decision of hers might undermine her entire premise of Elven Wisdom over Human Whimsy. If we rally our people behind the Queen’s original premise, and then name a Breton – if he even is a Breton, I still have my doubts – one of the Queen’s most trusted agents, and a Champion of the Dominion…”

Urcelmo looked up to see Razum-dar nodding slowly. “Raz understand your concerns, Battlereeve. Truth be told, Raz had doubts about his new fellow Eye at first as well. He is a Human, and this is a Dominion of Elves and Khajiit. Why would a Breton pledge allegiance to us, I thought?”

Raz sipped his wine again, his cheerful demeanor replaced by a more thoughtful one, although the traces of a smile ghosted across his lips. His whiskers twitched ever so slightly in contemplation. “I believe our friend simply enjoys being a hero. He likes bringing an end to those who threaten the lives of the common people. I would call him an altruist if I didn’t know how pleased he looked whenever he was hailed as a savior. The look of disbelief on that one’s face after claiming an arduous victory… he never goes into battle assured of his own survival. If you’ve seen him fight, you know he could not have picked up his blade more than a year or two ago. But I have been pleased to see how dexterous he is becoming in such a short time.”

The Khajiit dragged a nearby chair over to Urcelmo’s table and sat down in it properly, resting an elbow as he leaned in towards the Altmer. “Now, to address your primary concern, Battlereeve… do you know what the people value?”

“The people, Raz?”

“Yes. The common people. Not Canonreeves or Kinladies or Princes or Barons… I mean the blacksmiths in the forges, I mean the stevedores in the docks, the laborers and the artisans and the farmers across our entire Dominion who are at the mercy of forces beyond their ken, the whims of their higher authorities and their own fortunes which wax and wane like the Twin Moons.”

Raz watched Urcelmo carefully. When the Battlereeve made no attempt to interject, the Khajiit resumed. “The commoners do not care much who sits the Ruby Throne, certainly not as much as we under the Queen’s own service do. At the end of the day, with daedra still threatening their homesteads, enemies from both within and without putting their lives at peril… at the end of the day what the people of the Dominion care most about is themselves. Their way of life, their families, and their own safety. This is true of Altmer, Bosmer, and Khajiit; they only wish for their families and their livelihoods to be kept safe. With the Alliance War raging in Cyrodiil, our own forces are spread too thin to protect our own people as well as they’d hope, and thus our people are forced to face their problems alone.”

The Khajiit then made a vague motion with his wine-bearing hand towards Rolando and Jamila, both of who were leaning heavily against the bar, laughing quite loudly. “That man there is what the people of the Dominion need. He represents exactly the kind of values that the common folk treasure – the safeguarding of their lives and livelihoods. The Breton rooted out Heritance dogs across Auridon and ended or eased the suffering of our people with his actions. For whatever reason he has chosen to pledge allegiance to our Dominion, our people are better off because of it.”

Raz chuckled again. “Besides, I believe the Breton is just as aware of your concern as you are. It’s why he so eagerly wears Dominion armor emblazoned with the Dominion Eagle, and it is why he wears the winged helmet of Altmer design. He does not wish to be perceived as an outsider in our lands.”

Urcelmo found himself frowning slightly. He had not thought much about the human’s choice of armor, except how strangely it fit a man who was not of Altmer height; he never considered the reason why he had chosen to wear such armor and display such an iconic Dominion symbol on his chest for all his foes to behold.

“I… I see, Razum-dar. You are right. I believe I might have let my own fears for the Queen rule me,” the Battlereeve conceded at last. “He has only ever been a boon to us. The Queen trusts him, and... I should, too.”

“Of course you should!” Raz slapped the Battlereeve’s armored back. “Did you not recall how he foiled the assassination attempt on the Queen in Vulkhel Guard? You and him were back-to-back slaying assassins, from what he told me. I even overheard you saying you looked forward to sharing a drink with him sometime.”

Raz inclined his head towards the bar where Rolando and Jimila were still trying to match each other drink for drink, with the human evidently failing to keep up. “Perhaps you should hold yourself to that promise sometime.”

Urcelmo gave Raz a firm, hard look. The Khajiit, instead of responding to that look, simply stood and gave the Battlereeve a respectful nod, then a flippant smile, before departing. The Altmer watched him go, before turning his attention back to the human at the bar. After watching him for a minute or so, contemplating, he sighed at last. Everyone deserved a chance – and this lad had proven himself over and over. Perhaps it was time he had a sit-down and drink with the young man himself, finally.

[filhadoboto]

Freedom for Rey

 Summary: After the Battle of Crait, both the First Order and the Resistance must conform to their new realities. The same goes for Rey and Kylo Ren in relation to their roles as Jedi and Supreme Leader. When the Force decides that the time has come for them to talk again and open the bond between them, Kylo Ren is taken by surprise by the changes in Rey.

The war seemed more and more far from its end.

Contrary to what everyone in the First Order had thought, letting the Resistance dying was not enough to leave the galaxy at its feet or more docile. Many Systems that were previously neutral or indifferent to the conflict had openly declared themselves against the First Order.

Reports of First Order Intelligence said that the Rebellion was gradually rebuilding with the help of old and new allies. But Kylo knew that it would take a long time to become a military force to be recognized and able to oppose the might of the First Order. He also knew what Snoke would do with the Systems that were now opposed to his regime: he would order them to be destroyed. Just as he had done with the Republic and almost with the Ileenium System. Just as his grandfather Darth Vader had done to Alderan, his mother's planet.

The answer was always to destroy, annihilate, massacre those who did not want to recognize whoever was in power. It was like that with Palpatine. It was like that with Snoke. And that was exactly what he would not do. Already there had been many losses and other outlets were possible. Moreover, destroying planets and entire Systems just to keep the beings of the Galaxy in their power would not work forever. Fear would not allow peace to last. He knew there were other ways, for he had lived a part of his life with a Senator and a Smuggler, and he had learned from them that there was always another way out.

And it was precisely these "other outlets" that Supreme Leader Kylo Ren had tried to show to his commanders. And though his orders were law, he was finding it rather difficult to make the First Order follow the path he wanted it to follow, since everyone had expected him to continue with the same course of action as Snoke.

His head ached. Staying in the same room with people talking to him and trying to convince him to change his mind was one of the worst things about being the Supreme Leader. Everyone in that room knew how dangerous he was and that he would not hesitate to kill everyone for discussing his orders, but still everyone would discuss his decisions as if they were voting. Unfortunately, he could not kill everyone who was discussing his ideas and decisions, as this would only benefit those who wanted to take the power of his hands.

There were still doubts about the circumstances of Snoke's death. And he knew that many of those in the room with him suspected that he had some kind of involvement in the case. Of course, Kylo Ren would never tell them that he had split Snoke in half to save the girl's life. The Resistance had already caused a good amount of damage and putting the blame for the murder of its former Leader on the back of a member of the Resistance was the best way out.

Raddus's daring maneuver had destroyed several of the destroyers and led to the collapse of the Supremacy, and because of this, the Finalizer became the main ship of the First Order, from which Kylo Ren commanded everything. Many valuable resources had been lost with the destruction of Supremacy, but thanks to the quick thinking of those on the ship and the way it had been designed, many important things had been rescued and relocated to other destroyers.

Hux, sitting to his right, would do anything to keep his face from revealing his thoughts. But Kylo could not only feel the hatred and aversion of the General through the Force, but he could also glimpse images in his mind: Hux before the First Order announcing Kylo's execution; Kylo all broken and bloody being thrown at his feet; Hux using Kylo's saber to decapitate him; the howling of the troopers while acclaiming Hux as Supreme Leader!

Yes, I'm sure you'd love that, you kriffing bastard! But I'm not as easy to kill as you imagine.

When his patience reached the limit with the complaints in the room and once again someone suggested the absurd idea of destroying the planets that opposed them, Kylo got up from the chair and hit his right hand on the table in front of him. His voice was controlled, but his eyes burned with fury as he said, "I will not allow any more planet to be destroyed." He looked at each of them before continuing. "And I want any attack on the Systems that support the rebels be suspended immediately. As I've told you all, I have other plans for these Systems. "He could feel through the Force the waves of fear that came from them. "Was I clear?"

"Yes, Supreme Leader." they replied in unison.

With the meeting finally over, and with everyone understanding what their roles would be from now on, the Supreme Leader went to his private quarters. It was the only place where there was no complaint from his commanders or questions from Hux. Where he could enjoy the absence of Snoke's voice in his head. Where he could be in peace. Alone.

Governing the galaxy alone would be an arduous task, but he knew what had to be done. Of course, with the girl next to him, his equal, his light, everything would be easier to bear…

"Stop thinking about that scavenger!" He scolded as he opened the door to his chambers.

Once inside, Kylo got rid of his clothes and took a shower. His body seemed to weigh tons. It was at times like this, when the meetings with his subordinates took all the energy from him and his body seemed about to disconnect alone because of the fatigue, the extreme tiredness, that he most wanted to see her. It was when his body weakened that his will to forget the girl weakened and his mind wandered to the moments that the two had shared.

He knew better than to think of her. He had to leave her in his past since she had not chosen to be part of his future. He had offered everything he had to her. Everything. And in the end, he was left unconscious in the midst of the carnage that the two of them had done. When he woke up and found only Hux, ready to kill him, with the news that she had run away and left him behind, it was clear what he had to do. Like her, he had chosen one side and moved on. No, he should not think of her. But just as the light insisted on attracting him, the image of her refused to leave his mind.

Kylo walked toward the bed when a familiar sensation took over his senses. The bond, which had been quiet for months, opened and the world around him was silent. He had not expected to find her again. In his anger, shortly after the battle at Crait, he had sworn that if he saw her again he would make her regret for having filled him with hope and then abandon him, as everyone else had done in the past. He had rehearsed the words, the gestures. He had decided the two would be mortal enemies. He had sworn her life would be taken by his hands.

For weeks, he'd struggled to keep her from his thoughts, though he could never keep her from his dreams, where her hazel eyes pursued him. He had struggled not to suffocate in growing loneliness as he took control of the First Order. Sometimes he wished the bond would open just so he could see her face one last time. But other times, he wished that the bond had died with Snoke, and that the connection in Crait was only one last blessing of the Force. And now the bond between them was open and he knew that when he turned he would see her. And that's what he did.

Kylo hesitated.

Is the bond so strong now that it allows me to see not only where she is but also the people who are with her?

He could feel Rey's presence in the room ... But he only saw a girl sitting with her back to him, stirring something that required her full attention, dressed in a similar way as Rey, with Rey's body, but ... but the hair was wrong.

When he first met her, Rey wore her hair tied in three buns, and more recently, she was wearing half tied and half-loosened. And this girl he was seeing had her hair cut short in unequal locks, but still extremely feminine. He looked around for Rey. But there were only the two of them. Then the girl looked back and their eyes met. Hazel eyes stared at him. His breath caught in his chest and he felt his mouth open in complete puzzlement. All the words he had rehearsed to speak were forgotten.

Rey stood there in front of him, more beautiful than he could remember. She got up and he saw that the table in front of her was full of old books and they stood face to face. Her hand rested on the blaster at her waist, in a menacing pose. But despite this, he felt no hostility through the bond. There was surprise, curiosity, a little fear, and beneath it all there was ... joy? But her face was calm and controlled.

"Will not you yell at me and call me a monster?" He teased, but she said nothing. "You're going to shoot me, like you did the first time we met?" She just stared at him. "You know it does not work through the bond. If you want to kill me, you'll have to come to me personally, Jedi."

She stared at him for a few moments, seemed to ponder what to say to him. "Your life will not be taken by me Kylo Ren. Your destiny belongs to the Force and it is not over with you yet. One day you'll realize that the Force always gets what it wants." She took her hand off the blaster and continued. "What are you doing here Supreme Leader? I thought that with Snoke's death the bond between us had broken."

"I thought so too, and you know very well that neither of us has any control over the bond, and I know as much as you do about how it works."

"That is, nothing."

She sat down in the chair again and signaled to him to sit on what he believed to be her bed.

"But I've been thinking about everything Snoke said and I think I have a hunch." he said.

"A hunch? "

"Yes."

"What kind of hunch?" Rey stared at him, looking genuinely curious.

Kylo allowed herself a moment to savor her curiosity. "Bonds between Force users only end with the death of one or both of them. And when Snoke forged that connection between us he knew that only the death of one of us would destroy it. He also knew I was not strong enough to completely reject the call of the light or suppress my feelings for my parents and my defeat through your hands made him extremely furious. Then he joined our minds and took advantage of our weaknesses so that he could have Luke's location and test me. My test would be to kill you and thus destroy the bond and make me stronger. So, I could face Luke and eliminate the Jedi once and for all. I think he did not imagine my compassion for you would be stronger than my loyalty to him." He stopped and waited for her to say something, but she just looked at him, then he continued. "So, I think if we want to end these meetings, one of us will have to give up our own lives."

She pondered his words for a moment, "That makes sense. And since we both still cannot kill us, the bond will remain."

He nodded. "That's right."

"Any guess about how it works?"

"Not yet."

"Or something about what we can do to stop it from connecting us?"

"Also no. How about you? "

She sighed. "The only thing that makes sense to me is that all of this is the will of the Force."

He frowned. "Do you think it's the Force that decides when to connect us? Do you think it's the will of the Force that enemies are like this, so close to each other?"

"Kylo, you and I are instruments of the Force, so yes, I think there is a purpose behind all that is happening to us," she said, then looked at her hands and back at him. "And after all that has happened, I no longer consider you my enemy."

He stared at her in disbelief. "If you do not consider me your enemy, then why did not you join me?" His voice was filled with anger and pain and he took a deep breath before continuing. "Rey, we could rule together, end this war and make the galaxy a better place for everyone!"

She looked at him with sad eyes. "I told you that I couldn’t follow you on the path you had chosen. This isn’t the will of the Force, Kylo. And I know when you're ready, you'll make the right choice."

He was already tired of hearing about the will of the Force and about being its instrument. He had spent most of his life listening to it and it was the last thing he wanted to discuss with her. He was curious about another subject.

"May I ask why you cut your hair?"

She looked surprised at his question. She ran a hand around her neck where the ends of a few strands touched her skin and smiled.

"I could tell you that it's because it bothers me when I'm training." She took her hand from her neck and folded her arms in front of her body. "But the real reason is a little simpler. I let my past die, just as you advised me to do." She started. "When I was in Ahch-To with Luke, you said that this was the only way for me to become who I was meant to be." She looked at him and he nodded. "As you well know, I waited for the return of my parents all my life. I had clung to the hope that everything was a mistake, that they had been forced to leave me in Jakku, but that they were counting the days to be able to see me again. All my life I dressed the same way and used the hair the same way I wore the last time they saw me. I could not risk not being recognized. I wanted to be recognized by my family. I wish that when they came back and saw me they would have no doubt that I was their daughter. But I waited in vain, since my family was dead." She smiled sadly. "You were also right about me looking for my parents everywhere. I did it without realizing it." She took a deep breath. "Now that I've accepted the truth about their fate and mine, I can be whatever I choose to be, to do whatever I want to do." She ran her right hand over her exposed neck. "I started with my hair. He was the biggest symbol of my desperate waiting, how much I wanted to be rescued and loved. Now it’s the symbol of my freedom."

She smiled when she finished speaking. And Kylo stared at her in amazement.

"You look so beautiful," he heard himself say.

Her face flushed and when he felt his face heat up he knew he must be as red as she was. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the bond closed.

Back at the Finalizer, Kylo Ren was smiling.

[j0sgomez-blog]

A hiker atop Looking Glass Rock, Pisgah National Forest, N.C.

By Michael Lanza

Warm rain drums lightly on the lush deciduous forest around me as I walk up a long-abandoned dirt road that has narrowed to a trail with the gradual encroachment of vegetation. The wind assaults the treetops, the outer edge of a hurricane hitting the Southeast coast right now; but here, far from the storm, it sounds like waves rhythmically lapping up onto a beach and retreating. It’s a gray, early evening in mid-October in the basement of a compact valley in the Appalachian Mountains of western North Carolina—a valley that, due to its tight contours, sees precious few hours of direct sunlight at this time of year—and the daylight has filtered down to a soft, dim, tranquil quality.

A bit more than a half-mile up this quiet footpath, I reach my destination—and unconsciously catch my breath at what must be one of the most lovely cascades in a corner of North Carolina spilling over with waterfalls.

Roaring Fork Falls tumbles through a series of a dozen or more steps, each several feet high, before coming to rest briefly in a placid, knee-deep pool at its bottom. Beyond the pool, the stream continues downhill at an angle only somewhat less severe than the cascade above. In sunshine or warmer temperatures, I’d be tempted to wade in and sit in that pool. Now, I just stare at it, all but hypnotized.

Roaring Fork Falls, Pisgah National Forest, N.C.

I’m on the last, short hike of a day filled with beautiful waterfalls along the Blue Ridge Parkway, in the heart of one of America’s hiking and backpacking meccas: western North Carolina. I’ve come to spend a week chasing waterfalls, fall foliage color, and classic Southern Appalachian views while dayhiking in the mountains surrounding Asheville and backpacking in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

Unlike soaring, jagged Western mountain ranges such as the Tetons, High Sierra, or North Cascades, the Appalachian Mountains are lower and mostly forested from bottom to top, their once-sharper angles of ancient epochs worn rounder and softer by erosion and time. (It happens to all of us.) From a high point like Looking Glass Rock, Black Balsam Knob, or any of numerous turnouts along the Blue Ridge Parkway, the mountains here resemble a roiling, green sea of trees.

The West has big vistas; the Appalachians have big vistas, too, but mostly small, more intimate scenery, the kind that you can literally reach out and touch. Here, you don’t just look at the scenery; you’re in it.

In a sense, I went to North Carolina to reconnect with my hiking roots. I became a hiker, backpacker, and climber in the northern reaches of the Appalachian chain—in New Hampshire’s White Mountains and on many other wooded, rocky, rugged, little mountain ranges that pepper the Northeast. I discovered as a young man that I really liked the arduous nature of hiking in the Northeast, the craggy, windblown summits, and the fullness and deep silence of the forest in all seasons.

In North Carolina’s mountains, I rediscovered the pleasure of walking a footpath with last year’s dead leaves crunching underfoot; passing shallow streams that speak in some unknown tongue as they chug over and around stones; standing on summits overlooking seemingly endless rows of green or blue ridges fading to far horizons.

But I also discovered the unique qualities of the Southern Appalachians. They are not as steep and rocky (or as hard on ankles and knees) as their northern cousins. They’re not as crowded as one might be led to believe. They harbor hundreds of waterfalls, possibly the richest stash of falling waters in the country.

And these woods are quite simply a very good place to help a person remember what’s most important in life.

  Find your next adventure in your Inbox. Sign up for my FREE email newsletter now.

  Looking Glass Rock

The dry, crisp air of early morning raises goosebumps on my bare legs and arms as I start chuffing uphill in the woods of the Pisgah National Forest, a short drive out of the pleasant, small town of Brevard, where I’m spending a couple of nights while exploring the area’s trails. One of western North Carolina’s most recognizable natural landmarks, Looking Glass Rock (lead photo at top of story), leads my list of hikes today, which explains why I’m on the Looking Glass Rock Trail shortly after 7 a.m.

Brevard happens to be the seat of Transylvania County, a place relevant to hikers because the county receives over 90 inches of rain annually—making it the wettest county in North Carolina—and has over 250 waterfalls. I’m visiting several of them on dayhikes this week along the BRP, in the Pisgah, and in Gorges State Park.

  The Big Outside thanks musician Greg Bishop for the use of his music in the above video. Find more at https://store.cdbaby.com/artist/gregbishop and on iTunes.

  The trail rises at a gentle angle at first; but as I climb higher, it grows steeper. In this quiet forest, with little variation in the scenery as I walk uphill, it’s easy to get lost in thoughts; and in a world where we’re almost constantly receiving texts and checking email, getting lost in your thoughts has become a rare joy.

After a few miles of steady uphill climbing, I step out of the forest onto a sloping, sprawling granite slab at the top of Looking Glass Rock—atop the cliffs that millions of tourists photograph from turnouts along the Blue Ridge Parkway every year. The morning sun hasn’t yet reached these slabs, but it throws a warm spotlight on gentle waves of hills rolling out a carpet of dappled green for miles in all directions before me.

If every person could start each day this way, I gotta think the world would be a more peaceful place.

  Hi, I’m Michael Lanza, creator of The Big Outside, which has made several top outdoors blog lists. Click here to sign up for my FREE email newsletter. Subscribe now to get full access to all of my blog’s stories. Click here to learn how I can help you plan your next trip. Please follow my adventures on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Youtube.

  Blue Ridge Parkway

The Blue Ridge Parkway isn’t a highway you take when you want to get somewhere quickly; it exists for just the opposite objective: to get nowhere slowly. A narrow, two-way road snaking along the Blue Ridge from Shenandoah National Park in Virginia to Great Smoky Mountains National Park in western North Carolina, this 469-mile-long corridor through Eastern deciduous forest is, in many respects, America’s country road.

Begun in 1935 and finished more than half a century later with the completion of an engineering marvel, the Linn Cove Viaduct—an S-shaped bridge that hugs the side of North Carolina’s iconic Grandfather Mountain—it ranges in elevation from 600 feet to about 6,000 feet above sea level. From numerous places along it, one overlooks deep valleys in more shades of green than we have names for, steep-walled mountainsides draped in dense forest, and one overlapping mountain ridge after another.

The BRP also spans a wide range of habitats and supports more plant species—over 4,000—than any other park in the country. If you’re into fungi and look really, really hard, you’ll find 2,000 kinds of them, as well as 500 species of mosses and lichens. There are more varieties of salamander than anywhere else in the world. Wet, warm, and fertile, the Southern Appalachians are like a big orgy of photosynthesis that almost shocks the optic nerves, lasting for several months a year. Most of us rarely see such a conspicuous eruption of greenery.

With more than 100 trailheads and over 300 miles of trails scattered along its length, the BRP forms the spine of one gem of a trail system. (See my story “The 12 Best Dayhikes Along North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Parkway.”) That’s why, with a week to play on the trails of western North Carolina, I essentially made the Blue Ridge Parkway my base of operations.

  Want to read any story linked here? Get full access to ALL stories at The Big Outside, plus a FREE e-guide. Subscribe now!

Moore Cove in the Pisgah National Forest, N.C.

Moore Cove

Millions of people live within driving distance of the parks and forests of the Appalachian Mountains. With over 15 million visits annually, the Blue Ridge Parkway ranks number one among all National Park Service sites for visitors, while Great Smoky Mountains National Park occupies the third spot on the list, with nearly 11 million visits a year. Not surprisingly, escaping the throngs in much of the Appalachian Mountains presents a formidable challenge—especially during fall foliage season.

But sometimes you just get lucky.

It’s early evening when I pull into the roadside parking area for Moore Cove, on Route 276 in the Pisgah National Forest. I’ve already hiked about 17 miles today, hitting several peaks and hills along the Blue Ridge Parkway. My original plan was to stop and photograph Looking Glass Falls, a famous roadside waterfall that gets viewed by hundreds of people on a typical day—and where there’s still, even now, a parking lot filled with cars. Seeing all those vehicles, I decide to take the 20-minute hike to Moore Cove instead.

As with the short trail to Roaring Fork Falls, the well-tended footpath to Moore Cove resides at the bottom of a deep Appalachian valley with close mountains on both sides, beneath a canopy of maple, oak, and tulip poplar trees; so even though the sun hasn’t yet set on another day, dusk settled in down here at least an hour ago. Rosebay rhododendron and ferns blanket the ground. For now, anyway, I’m the only person out here.

  I can help you plan this or another hiking trip you read about at my blog. Find out more here.

  Reaching Moore Cove, I stop, and a reflexive smile creeps across my face. Before me, a silvery, 50-foot waterfall plunges in a nearly silent, gossamer column over the lip of a rock alcove.

That’s one of the special aspects of hiking in the Southern Appalachians: These old mountains still conceal little mysteries. They’re not especially tall or grand; they don’t have attractions that will rival the majesty of Yosemite or Yellowstone. But their rumpled contours, incredibly vibrant ecology, and the ingredients for an abundance of waterfalls—steep terrain and buckets and buckets of rain—collaborate to create an almost infinite number of micro-scenes that inspire an awe that’s more subdued with each episode, but cumulatively powerful and enduring. The mountains of western North Carolina constantly surprise you with spots like Moore Cove.

I shoot some photos, and have the place all to myself for maybe 10 minutes. Then a family shows up, and I pack up and depart, leaving them their own little piece of solitude and magic.

  Tell me what you think.

I spent a lot of time writing this story, so if you enjoyed it, please consider giving it a share using one of the buttons below, and leave a comment or question at the bottom of this story. I’d really appreciate it.

  See all of my stories about hiking and backpacking in western North Carolina, including:

“The 12 Best Dayhikes Along North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Parkway.” “In the Garden of Eden: Backpacking the Great Smoky Mountains.” “Photo Gallery: Waterfalls of the North Carolina Mountains.” “Roof of the East: Hiking North Carolina’s Mount Mitchell.” “The 20 Best National Park Dayhikes” for a description of a hike along the Appalachian Trail in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

  Feeling inspired by this story? Subscribe now for full access to ALL stories at The Big Outside and get a free e-guide!