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diodellet · 2 years ago

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i think i've found a place for us (jamil viper x gn!reader)

lovingly strapping jamil into a rollercoaster ride along the full emotional spectrum😇😇 fic title is from this song content warnings: -reader is yuu/ramshackle prefect -mix of jp and en terms -post-Book 4 OB (references to master-servant relationships, assassinations) -self-deprecating thoughts (references to symptoms of depression) ++this fic is hurt/comfort, whatever issues kalim and jamil have, it's probably mentioned here word count: 3.4k words

This was now Jamil's... fourth day of staying at the Ramshackle dorm. And even though he spent most of the time drifting in and out of sleep, he could make a list of all the inconveniences that came with temporarily living in the once-abandoned dorm. Mold, dust, cobwebs—those were only the first of many entries on his list.

It was far from the quiet, secluded place he initially pegged it as. The building would creak and groan as its living residents moved from room to room. At the peak of midnight, bits and pieces of the ghosts' conversations would travel through the walls, up the floorboards, mix with the sound of the wind outside.

That didn't mean it was completely unbearable.

Whenever you thought that you were alone, you would fill the silence with song. More humming and mumbled syllables than audible lyrics, but still melodious and pleasant to listen to.

"I didn't know you sang." Jamil's voice is rough with sleep.

You spin around to see him, eyes widening in surprise. “You! Should be sleeping!”

"I… think I've had enough."

If anything, he’s spent too much time asleep for the past few days, dealing with more lingering headaches instead of feeling rested and energized. He sits up, turns his gaze to an interesting patch of clawed up wood on the bedframe left uncovered by your mattress. Grim's doing.

"...did I—do you want anything? I could run over to Sam's or the cafeteria?"

"No, no thank you." It wasn’t that he couldn’t stomach the thought of food, but it was along the lines of not really feeling up to it.

He’s been feeling an awful lot of nothing lately. It was as if everything—all the rage, the resentment, everything that had festered within his being—disappeared with the Blot.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” All that remained now was the shadow of his Overblot. The lingering discomfort, the hushed whispers from the students, the vision of ink coating his fingers.

“Just…” He shakes his head. “...Go back to what you were doing.” The words spill out. Clipped, taut. A demand—no, a plea for you to leave it at that.

He doesn’t miss the way you flinch. “Okay.” You nod, and slowly turn back to your textbook. Slip the other earphone back on and spin your pen in between your fingers.

(The reflexive ‘sorry’ catches in his throat, a few seconds too late for it to be used.)

Jamil lies back down, staring up at the ceiling. The hour ticks by, rays of the afternoon light slowly dimming. He shuts his eyes again, but doesn’t let himself doze off.

The scratch of your pen stops. “...hello?” Jamil turns to rest on his other side so that he’s not looking at you or your work desk. “He’s still here, yes… what about Kalim?”

Even if you lower your voice, it doesn’t stop his ears from picking up on the conversation. The same way that his sleep never tips too far into deep unconsciousness.

“I see… I’ll try asking him about that later.” You fall silent again, listening to the person on the other end. “...Are you guys holding up alright? On top of your…usual stuff?”

He suspects it might be someone from Octavinelle, maybe Jade or Azul.

The chair legs squeak against the floor. “...If it does get to be too much, please tell me. I’ll figure something out. Maybe I’ll visit Scarabia tomorrow or—” The sentence dies in your throat.

Another pause elapses before you give a resigned sigh. “Alright, sorry, I-I’ll leave it to you…thank you.” Something clatters on your desk, probably your phone.

“...Okay, dinner. What to make…” You mutter to yourself, clicking on the desk lamp. Your footsteps travel to the other side of the room to undo the curtains.

He continues to feign sleep, remaining still as you switch on the lamp at the bedside table. The mattress dips with your weight as you lean over to pull up the blanket so that it covers his shoulder.

The first day that he arrived at Ramshackle was in the middle of a snowy night. An otherwise normal interaction with Kalim escalated into a heated argument. And then the dorm leader insisted on doing something by himself, which steered the conversation into doing away with their opposing statuses and then…like his Overblot, Jamil couldn’t remember the exact specifics of what happened.

Only a persistent gnawing at his temples, red-hot flashes obscuring his vision, his hands haphazardly gathering his things. Not a single one of his dormmates stopped him, quickly moving out of his way or fearfully standing to the side. Kalim's voice calling out for him was the last thing Jamil heard before he stepped through the mirror.

Somehow, his feet brought him to the once-abandoned dormitory. His shoulder was protesting under the weight of his gym bag. The wind bit into the exposed parts of his face, his hoodie did little to protect him from the cold. The gate was locked, of course. But just before he turned on his heel to return to Scarabia, one of the Ramshackle ghosts appeared and unlocked the gate for him.

Everything else was a blur after that. He was just…numb. And tired. Pliant to letting you peel off his snow-covered outerwear and replacing it with a thick blanket. Another ghost pushed a warm mug of tea into his hands. He couldn’t fall asleep though, not with Grim sitting next to him by the fireplace and whining about being woken up.

“—just let me call back in the morning, he’s…no, he’s not hurt, he’s fine.” You were on the phone, cradling it against your shoulder as you laid his hoodie on the back of a chair. “Okay, bye.”

Jamil didn’t feel alright. If he didn’t upend his family’s carefully-built legacy with his betrayal and Overblot, then he single-handedly sent it to its downfall by running away from Scarabia, away from his charge.

“I…should go back…” he mumbled, moving to stand up. He set the tea aside, the drink was untouched. His fingers had warmed enough at this point. The blanket fell to the floor. “Kalim…”

“Will be fine,” you cut him off, gripping him by his shoulders. “He’s got the rest of Scarabia with him. You’re…not okay.”

Those words stung. He shrugged off your hold. “It doesn’t matter, I have to go.” He needed to stop acting like a child. Go back to what he was meant to do.

“Jamil, I’m not letting you walk in the snow. If you really want to go back, then at least…” Your expression, pained with concern, then softened with your voice. “...at least wait for the weather to calm down by next morning. Please.”

“...Next morning. I’m leaving,” he conceded.

He didn’t leave when morning arrived. When he awoke, it was already afternoon. He was covered in two new blankets and Grim was curled up against his legs.

At the foot of your bed, resting beside his gym bag, were two overstuffed suitcases. Kalim’s handiwork.

Save for the light emanating from the desk lamps, the rest of your room is shrouded in darkness. Shadows stretch across the walls, the floorboards, the edge of your bed, seemingly dripping with ink.

He scrubs a palm over his face. The room returns to normal—no, it's always been normal. He's the one with problems. To solve and to shoulder, those were the only courses of action he could take. And to say that he was merely shouldering all these burdens would discount the resourcefulness he honed from a young age.

But then to be denied both options with your interference—you, Kalim, and that Octavinelle trio—to have you all meddle a second time, it should have sent him into a rage again. Maybe it would have warranted a second Overblot, but he was. Just. So.

Tired.

He pulls himself out of your bed and goes down to the kitchen.

You were at the stove, finishing up a batch of pasta and serving it on a plate. One of the Ramshackle ghosts was carrying Grim in its arms. Maybe to keep him from jumping onto the countertop and sneaking a few bites. Atop the small dining table, an upbeat tune played from your phone, it sounded like something from a musical. The scene in front of him was nice, but dinner was tuna carbonara. And for the past four days, his meals consisted of fish. Not even shellfish, just some iteration of canned fish. Tuna, sardines, mackerel, salmon, maybe shrimp if Grim was up for the "variety."

Jamil can’t complain, he won’t complain. He’s not a picky eater by any means, but even he had his limits when it came to eating processed food. In his mind, he decided that he would have to take over kitchen duties. Tomorrow. He can only manage helping with cleanup.

(For now, even as an outsider, he can enjoy the shred of normalcy that the shared meal brings.)

You spend one more hour at your desk, going through your winter break homework. Steadily and methodically finishing one subject at a time. Your foot taps against the floor, in time with the music playing through your earphones.

“...Done!” You sigh in relief, stretching your arms above your head. “Will you still need the lights, Jamil?” You turn to look at him.

One of his own textbooks laid open on the bed, little lecture notes and annotations neatly written along the margins. His homework was already completed a day before the holidays started. But, he decided he could redo some of them, make an attempt to earn a higher grade.

“We can stop holding back on account of our social status.”

Jamil feels a twinge at his left temple. He closes the book, leaving a pencil in between the pages as a makeshift bookmark, then sets it at the foot of the bed. “No, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.” There’s an urge to make himself small, invisible to your concern. Which he knows is just basic courtesy as a host—as the head of the Ramshackle Dormitory.

“Alright. Good night, Jamil.” A click, then darkness.

That would make this the fourth night spent away from Scarabia. Another night of resting in two hour intervals. Of waiting for sleep to claim him before his racing thoughts consumed him. He calls your name.

It’s surprisingly easy to, now that the lights are off. “You should be sleeping in your own bed.”

“...But I can’t just let you sleep on the sofa. It’ll be a killer on your back.” The sound of your footsteps slows to a stop, floorboards creaking with the motion. “The both of us are fine sleeping downstairs.”

“Isn’t he a restless sleeper?”

“Nope, he sleeps like a baby.”

At that remark, somewhere from the first floor, the sound of rapid footfalls could faintly be heard. Coupled with the fire-monster’s trademark cackle.

“Well, that is, when he gets tired enough.”

The both of you lapse into silence, listening to Grim tear through the first floor hallways. The sound of the ghosts playfully taunting him.

You mutter quietly to yourself, “yeah, he’ll tire himself out in a bit. Hopefully.” The floorboards creak again, you’re probably leaning against the doorframe. “Does the noise bother you?’

“No, not really…” The Scarabia dorm was unnervingly quiet in the days after his Overblot. It was as if there were eyes on him, breaths held in anticipation. Watching and waiting for his next misstep. Nighttime wasn’t any easier. Whenever he'd jolt awake, he would stifle any screams or cries with his pillow, wait for the terror to run its course, count the hours until sunrise. “It’s just—”

There’s a faraway crash and the sound of Grim cursing, a chorus of ghostly laughter in response.

“Never mind, I misspoke. It’s…” Stupid. Jamil quickly dismisses your concern. “You should go check on him.” He turns his back to the doorway.

But you don’t leave. The sound of your footsteps approaches your bed. “Grim’ll be fine. I’m… more worried about you. Could you scoot over?”

“It’s your bed.” He tamps the embarrassment down, forces irritation into his words. Nonetheless letting you climb into the spot next to him. The mattress dips with your weight added to it.

Your own response was bashful. “I know, but…” you pause, thinking of your next words. “Grim and the ghosts… noticed that you were having… nightmares.”

“They’ll pass.” He’s dealt with worse.

“...You’re not wrong for feeling these things,” you say, voice low. As if speaking any louder would disturb the other residents of the dorm.

"How could you still say that…” A lump forms in his throat. “...after…"

"After everything?”

It doesn’t feel right to hear you cut to the heart of it. His words spill into the darkness of your bedroom. "After throwing you and Grim into the desert, keeping you against your will—"

"Hey, we were glad to get out of the cold for a little bit."

At his silence, you let out a quiet laugh.

"...I mean it though. It wasn't all bad." Your fingertips press against the side of his arm, apologetic.

He doesn’t… shy away from the contact, but he remains still. Staring up at the ceiling. “You could’ve died.”

Your touch withdraws. “I can say the same to you."

"Wouldn't that have been better? What use is there for an insubordinate servant?” Jamil thinks back to the attempts made on Kalim’s life. Investigations were made into the other staff. Into esteemed guests, renowned politicians, prospective and longtime business partners. Through it all, only the Viper household remained clean.

And it just had to be him, the person closest to Kalim, who tarnished that steadfast loyalty. He’s seen what happened to assassins who were caught.

(There’s a certain irony in having to spill blood for the protection of another.)

"Don't…don't say that. Kalim doesn’t think of you like that…"

But he still treats Jamil like one. “He thinks the world of everyone he meets. Even those who’ve wronged him.”

“...sure, maybe he’s a bit naive—” That was an understatement, Jamil thinks to himself. Dense, ignorant, stupid were more fitting. “—but he really does see you as one of his closest friends.”

“What do you know?” he counters. What could you say that he hasn't already heard?

“Kalim’s not stupid. He genuinely trusted—he still trusts you in spite of what happened.”

And wasn’t that the most irritating part? That he was still being showered in empty kindness and praise by Kalim? That in the end, he would have to be held accountable for something as careless as losing control of himself?

“It isn’t that simple.” Frustration laces the way he says your name. “Put yourself in my shoes for a second—”

“I am…I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s my duty, to Kalim’s family and my own.” God, he was sick of hearing the dorm leader’s drivel about friendship, but to hear himself repeating his parents’ own words to you was painful.

“That’s true, but you’re not…”

There’s a familiar heat building at the base of Jamil’s throat, an ugly mix of shame, embarrassment. “His title and status as the Asim heir takes priority, and I have to make sure that he doesn’t die before that happens—”

“But you were just a kid!” Your voice rises to a furious whisper before falling, quiet and trembling. “...you were just…a kid… and you shouldn’t have had to bear that on your own for so long…And then to be expected to carry on as if nothing happened…”

Jamil should be angry at hearing another shed tears for him. Expressing the emotions that should’ve been his. Only one other person has done that in front of him, and that misplaced kindness sent him further along the route to his eventual Overblot.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t but—” Despite your apology, the thickness in your voice doesn’t let up. "Still…! Who just tells their own child to ‘lose thrice’?"

The anger that he has carefully nursed doesn’t rear its head. Maybe it really did disappear with the dispelling of his Overblot. Or maybe it’s because you didn’t face him with the fear that his dormmates held.

“How do you know that?” His question is met with your silence. With the curtains drawn closed, only faint slivers of moonlight creep into your bedroom, scarcely enough to reveal the shape of your figure beside him. Jamil’s hand reaches out tentatively—the back of your hand is damp—before withdrawing altogether.

“...When I fell into the Blot ink, I could hear them…and I saw you. When you were younger.”

He could remember the ink pouring into every orifice. “Then you…” If it went on for any longer, it would have drowned him, then consumed his magic, then his body and then—

“Yeah, then I managed to pull you out.”

“But you weren’t in the infirmary.”

“...Fourth time’s the charm, I guess.”

“Did…that happen with the others?”

“Yeah. With Riddle. And Leona, and Azul. I don’t know why it happens." You shift, the sound of your clothes rustling against the bed covers as you move closer to him. Your shoulder lightly nudges his. “The first time it happened, no one else knew what I was talking about.”

“Tell that to the livestream of my conversation with Azul.”

“But they didn’t broadcast it… it was just a speaker call. For the rest of the dorm to hear.”

Jamil sits up. “What.” He was supposed to know about this? Those Octavinelle fuckers.

“I…I thought—oh, I guess they didn’t tell you, I’m sorry—”

His stunned silence is broken with a laugh, bubbling from his throat and building into sharp, hysterical laughter. He feels warm, burns with embarrassment, because of course it wasn’t a livestream. And why was he feeling a hint of relief at that revelation?

His palms press against his eye sockets. To his ears, the sound is foreign, but he can feel the exertion in his throat. Feel his breathing quicken, the start of a sob which he chokes down.

It takes him a few more moments to register the tears flowing down his cheeks. His outburst dies as quickly as it erupted. His chest hurts at the feeling of stifling his cries, to keep them from escaping.

God, he feels dumb.

You sit up, pull him into your arms. Let him cry against your shoulder, rub a soothing hand against his back. You don’t say anything, but the tender gesture speaks enough.

By the time his emotions have calmed down, his head aches with a dull pain. The all-too familiar sensation of exhaustion seeps into him.

“Will… you ever talk to Kalim?” you ask. Your own expression was stricken with tear tracks, from sharing in a fraction of his pain.

“Of course I have to eventually.” He sighs, lying back down and you follow. “...I have no choice.”

“You don’t have to…force yourself to though.” You reach forwards, gently wiping away his tears with your thumbs. And he lets you. “If you still need time, you can stay here… To rest and recuperate.”

Paradoxically, it’s in the words of a stranger—(did you count as an acquaintance though? Acquaintances didn’t just spoon each other though, they didn’t just tangle their legs together while sharing the same bed)—that he finds a pinprick of solace.

And sure, you could call it that. ‘Rest.’

But to Jamil, this was stagnation. He couldn’t just keep mooching off your hospitality, blindly trusting in Kalim’s resolve to change. He couldn’t let himself stay indebted for this long.

“I can’t just stay here for the holidays. But…thank you.”

Once winter break ends, what would he do? How should he go about repairing his social standing in the dorm? With the rest of the student body?

What’s the next move?

He doesn’t even realize that he’s fallen asleep. Rest comes to him, gentle and peaceful.

When early morning arrives, Jamil gives himself five minutes. Five minutes of sitting in the rare calmness of his mind, of listening to your slow even breathing, of being encased in between the warmth of the blankets and your body heat. Comfortable, protected, safe in your arms.

Then he extricates himself from your hold. At the motion, you make a weak sound of protest, blindly reaching after him. Your fingers brush against the hem of Jamil’s shirt. He catches your wrist, gently sets your arm down on the mattress. Then he pulls the edge of the blanket over you to keep you warm and goes to get ready for the day.

Since he was planning on making breakfast, he’d first have to check if the school store had anything available.

(A part of him is grateful that Kalim packed a scarf.)

A/N: originally this started as a scene of jamil being the lazy one for once and trying to keep u in bed with him. i just wanted to write cuddles (read: the intended kissies were somehow lost along the way. i am still sobbing crying weeping and calling for them to come back home) but aaa its finally done, one of my persistent brainworms is freed!! and more have taken its place help id like to credit @jessamine-rose for betaing this fic, thank u ms maam twst veteran💕💕 wcidfy ch3 will take a bit more time to be written. so im gonna chip away at other wips (shorter oneshots) as i try to get the main beats down. it would take a miracle for it to be posted soon, so id probably expect chapter 3 in (late) june. anyway, i hope u enjoyed reading this, don't be afraid to rb and holler in the tags!! i treasure each and every comment!! taglist (ig i have one of these now?): @merotwst

#dellet-writings #twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #jamil viper #jamil viper x reader #g/n reader

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jhilsara · 10 months ago

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Tie Me to You/ Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: Mika and the incubi have a successful party. But what are Devils?

Word Count: 2.6k

Chapter Warnings: Small gun violence

This fanfic will explore heavier emotions and will have eventual smut. Minors DNI

Can also be found on AO3 X

I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser

Midnights become my afternoons

When my depression works the graveyard shift

All of the people I've ghosted stand there in the room

Anti-Hero - Taylor Swift

The house is finally empty. Everyone has disappeared and Mika is sitting on the staircase, head resting on Damien’s thigh as he sits behind her. Matthew and Sam flank her on the left and right. James and Erik are standing, but just barely. Their bodies lean on the staircase banister with their ties undone. The group is drained physically and emotionally.

“So... that went well?” Matthew’s voice asks hesitantly, looking up at James.

James lets out a heavy sigh and nods, “As well as it could have.”

“Oh, was the bombarding of questions too much for his royal highness?” Sam spits out sarcastically.

James twitches at that, but doesn’t give into Sam’s tease, “Not too awful, just draining...” James takes his glasses off to massage the bridge of his nose. “How was the rest of your night?” He shifts the attention to Mika.

She lazily looks up at James, unwilling to really feel motivated to move. She shrugs, “Better after my father left.” She murmurs.

Sam groans and leans back on his arms, “Fuck your dad!”

Matthew sits up a little more, leaning over to look at Mika better, “What happened? I didn’t know something went down?”

Erik crosses his arms in frustration, brow furrowed, “Her awful father put his hands on her and left a nasty bruise.” he says irritably.

Mika feels Damien stiffen behind her as he and Matthew proclaim, “He what?!” in simultaneous disbelief.

Mika had been so drained she hadn’t even thought about what her father did earlier in the evening. She just wanted to go to bed. It wasn’t the first time her father had put his hands on her, but it was hopefully the last.

“It’s over, I’m fine, Sam stepped in.” She says dismissively, trying to avoid the topic entirely.

Damien reaches down and grabs her arm gently, “Can we check it?” he asks softly, in a way that she knows means he’s just trying to be helpful and not make it a spectacle.

She avoids their eyes but slowly removes the opera glove, exposing the bruise. She hadn’t looked at it since but in the past few hours it’s gotten worse. The disgusting yellow peeking out underneath it all makes her feel nauseous.

“Oh Mika...” Damien’s voice rings behind her.

She can’t take the staring and shoves the glove back on. She folds her arms in on herself. Mika tries to make herself disappear, shame filling her chest.

“It’s over alright? He left and Sam definitely broke his hand.” Mika says, trying to keep her voice light and joking, but the clip to it reveals her resentment.

“Sam!” James raises his voice giving his younger brother a pointed look.

Sam snorts avoiding James’ eyes, “I didn’t break it... I just fractured it. Aggressively.” he says with a smirk looking down at Mika, giving her a light nudge with his knee.

The nonchalant attitude of it all has Mika relaxing again, she feels light laughter bubbling from her chest. It all just seemed so ridiculous after all. A dead rich grandfather, an abusive father, and five strange men who just happened to be incubi? It all just sounded so absurd. Mika couldn’t figure out what her life was anymore. It was insane to think so much could happen in four months.

“We should probably clean up...”

Sam stands and reaches his hand out for Mika, to help her stand.

A gunshot echoes in the room, loud and terrifying. Before Mika can even register what’s happening, she’s curled up on the stairs, Sam’s bracing himself over her and Damien. Using his body as a shield.

There’s a pregnant pause before they realize no one is hurt. Sam stands fully to turn towards the door, anger clear on his face.

Past Sam’s figure, Mika sees two people. If you could call them people, their skin a burning fire red. The two figures standing in the open doorway have her spinning. The male presenting one of the two holds a gun in his hand, as it lazily dangles on his fingers like it’s not a weapon.

“Honey I’m home~” his voice calls out, its cold and gritty. Making her want to sink lower to the ground.

Damien moves to stand, keeping Mika positioned behind Sam. “Get out.” Damien says in a clear voice. “This home is protected by holy magic; your powers won’t work here.” Damien says in a voice that is more exasperated than annoyed.

Mika can tell Damien’s tone irritates the visitor, his eye twitching, “I don’t need this to kill you.” The man stays in a distorted voice. Glowering at the incubi brothers.

“We’re really not in the fucking mood Malix. Get the fuck out.” Sam growls out stepping closer.

Malix, the man with bright red skin and white hair, looks unamused. He cocks his brow before looking over Sam from head to toe with a feral smile like a predator. Showing his sharp teeth, ready to bite down.

“Oh? Sorry, did I barge in on you lot whoring yourselves out like the incubus you are?” he asks with a disgusting cackle leaving his throat.

Mika is taken aback by what the man says, none the less the fact he barreled into her home. “Excuse me?” She asks, tone offended for the brothers.

She tries to stand and step past Sam, but his arm keeps her behind him. He won’t budge. “Stay behind me.” He whispers to her lowly.

Malix, perks up at her voice. He steps forward leaning closer, trying to get a good look at her. His yellow and blood red eyes roam until they land on her face. It’s unsettling to say the least. His feral smile never leaves his face.

“Oh, is that her? The warlocks kins?” Malix asks with a short high-pitched laugh, “C’mon share her! It’s not nice to keep playthings to yourselves.” He whines out, his gaze piercing into hers.

Mika grips onto Sam, taking a hesitant step back, she didn’t like how he was looking at her...like she was a meal. She can't move, the piercing red of his glare freezing her. She just clings onto Sam, who in turn has his fists clenched already.

James steps forward, pushing Malix back and blocking Mika from his line of sight. “She’s protected too you animal.” James hisses out.

Malix just raises a brow at that, while a smirk crosses his face. “Interesting...” he drawls out.

The woman who’s with him seems incredibly unamused by all of this. She’s just waiting by the door for him. “Malix.” She says his name in an irritated tone.

He whips his head around to her, mouth open to yell but sees the look she’s giving him. Mika can’t see too well, so she misses the silent conversation that seems to be happening between them. Malix just scoffs.

“We’ll leave... but watch your back outside of,” he gestures his arms widely to the house, “this protective barrier.” He says ‘protective’ like it’s a joke with a heinous laugh.

He stands tall looking over at them once more, “You’re in our territory incubi.” He turns to leave but hesitates.

He does a full turn and points his gun at Mika, Sam’s still positioned in front of her, refusing to move.

It doesn’t protect her from the piercing glare of Malix’s red eyes, staring into her soul, “You too sweetheart, don’t think you’re safe either.”

Malix pockets his gun before leaving the house. The group of incubi all letting out a breath they were holding.

Mika’s shaking, she’s looking at the five brothers for answers, but their silence isn’t helpful. Sam turns to look at her, and the rage softens for a moment, to notice her anxiety.

Tonight, just couldn’t be a normal night.

“What are they?” Mika finds her voice to ask, she’s trembling. Any joy or reprieve she had from earlier was absolutely gone. Icy fear gripped at her now.

“Devils... they come from Hell.” Erik spits out disdainfully.

She pauses, “Then where do you come from?” she asks.

Mika is realizing how little she truly knows about these five men. Yes, she’s gotten close to them in the past three months, but they almost never talk about their past. She could almost forget they were demons.

“The Abyssal Plains, demons, come from a different realm.” James states crossing his arms, “We have our own supply of magic and free will. Devils, on the other hand, their magic doesn’t belong to them. They pull their powers from hell, from Satan. They only live to cause chaos, murder, and mayhem to human souls, either here or in Hell.” he tells her in a bitter voice.

Mika stands there dumbfounded for a moment. There’s too much information for her to take in. Demons are not the same as devils, nor do they come from the same place. They all have magic, but it’s different. On top of all of that, there’s holy magic? She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to comprehend the information overload.

While her brain feels like it’s going into overdrive, Damien grabs her hand making her look at him. Pausing all thoughts.

“He can’t hurt you, not with hellborn magic. It’ll be okay.” Damien tries to reassure her.

She knows he can’t help but read her mind, it’s just on display for him, but she feels guilty that he’s exposed to her raw emotions almost every day. It’s hard enough being in her own head, she can’t imagine juggling everyone else's.

Sam’s hand lands on her shoulder and he squeezes it, “We’ll kill ‘em.” He tells her confidently.

She looks at the group of men wearily but it’s not like she has much of a choice. She has to trust them.

Mika wakes up the next morning and decides that she was already over the day before it had even begun. She rolls over lazily checking the time on her phone and frowns. It’s too early for her to be awake. She curls herself deeper into her plush blankets and squeezes her eyes shut, hoping for an ounce of more sleep. To drift away for a few more hours.

She tosses and turns before she undoubtedly settles on the fact, she is unfortunately awake for the day. It didn’t mean she had to be productive.

While she should get up and clean up downstairs, she can’t find it in herself to bother doing that right now. She gets as comfortable as she can in her bed and finds herself endlessly scrolling away on her phone.

It’s not until it’s the middle of the afternoon that Mika decides she needs to be a human. She drags herself to the bathroom to quickly shower and brush her teeth. She pulls on her comfiest clothes and goes to the entrance to start cleaning.

Mika's surprised when she goes to the staircase that it’s already practically spotless. All decorations were gone, the standing tables for the bar were put away, and the floor had looked freshly mopped. She stands there stupefied for a brief moment. They cleaned...?

She walks towards the kitchen, prepared to do some chores, but once again, clean. The kitchen was practically spotless, and the dishes had been cleaned and put away. Before Mika can think of something else to preoccupy her time, she hears shouting outside. It almost sounds like drill instructions.

She walks towards the back of the house and through the French doors that leads out to the patio, following the noise. She leans against the open door watching the commotion. All five of the boys were outside and it looked like they were training. At least from what Mika hears Sam barking, it sounds like instructions.

She watches them perform a four against one fight. Sam being the solo act. He easily dodges their attacks and lands a few punches of his own. Almost dancing around his brothers. Mika watches them for a few more minutes before she decides to interrupt.

“How long have you guys been out here?” Mika calls out to them. Moving to the edge of the patio. She’s only in some house slippers and she doesn’t plan to step on the dirt after taking a shower.

The boys all stumble, surprised at her presence. Mika raises a brow at them, looking over how they are clearly exhausted.

“What time is it?” Matthew asks, he’s bent over hands against his knees trying to catch his breath.

“Around two, maybe almost three.” she tells him.

“Long enough. We’ve been out here long enough!” Matthew tells her exasperated as he shoots Sam a glare.

“We need a break...and food.” James says looking at each of his brothers. He isn’t hunched over like Matthew but he’s taking some shallow breaths.

Sam huffs in frustration, “I don’t know if you guys have noticed, but we don’t have time for a break!” He bites out harshly.

Sam’s drenched in sweat, and while he stands tall with his hands on his hips in irritation, Mika can see how tired he is from the slight shake in his muscles. They all desperately need to eat at the very least.

“You want one too Sam.” Damien outs his brother's thoughts quickly, with a soft smirk of his own.

Mika snorts in amusement. Sam just rolls his eyes.

Mika raises her hand to wave them off dismissively, “Go and shower guys, I’ll make lunch!” She turns to go back into the house. Ignore the faint protests she hears. If they spent all morning cleaning and training, she could make them lunch. Fair is fair... even if she feels like she’s doing the least amount of work in the house.

She’s going through what’s in the kitchen before she lands on just making them sandwiches. It was easy, light, and would at the very least settle their stomachs until a proper dinner.

Mika gets to work making them some protein filled sandwiches. She also cuts up some vegetables and fruits to put on the side. Giving them something to hopefully make them feel better than they looked. It doesn’t take her a super long time to make all five of them plates.

She makes herself a late breakfast parfait, with the leftover fruit and yogurt. She eats it before she’s even done making their lunches. Dancing around the kitchen to the music she's softly playing from her phone.

Mika leaves their plates of food on the dining table for when they’re ready. She was going to study for her finals until dinner. She still had a few more weeks of her degree left, and she wasn’t about to fail now. She just had to get through her business program, and she was starting her masters in the fall. She was more than excited to focus on a path she enjoyed.

Mika’s so lost in her studies she doesn’t notice the time until it’s well after seven. She makes her way downstairs and sees all five of the men laid out on chairs in the dining room. She pauses at the entryway and looks at them concerned.

“How about we order dinner?” she suggests looking at the tiredness seeping into them.

There’s a faint murmur of agreement, James goes off to do some work in the office and Erik plans to lie in his bed until food arrives. Mika drags Damien, Matthew, and Sam with her to the living room.

“If you’re going to rot it might as well be comfortable.” she suggests.

She sits in the middle of the couch with Matthew and Damien flanking her sides. Sam chooses to lounge on the floor, his head resting against her legs. Mika is casually carding her hands through Sam’s hair, Matthew is fully laying on her shoulder, and Damien’s draped over the arm rest half-awake watching the movie Mika put on to pass the time. The four of them are so comfortable they almost fall asleep before their dinner comes.

She’s thankful that this was an easy solution. It’s been a hectic weekend, and she would rather spend her Sunday trying to relax. Their problems could wait until Monday like the rest of the world.

#seduce me the otome #seduce me otome #seduce me #sam seduce me #seduce me james #seduce me damien #seduce me erik #seduce me matthew #seduce me mika #mika anderson #seduce me fanfiction

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quantim · 1 year ago

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Thoughts on Alan and Tom, specifically the Tom we see in AW2 and why he’s so youthful— FULL spoilers for Final Draft under the cut.

First as for why Tom looks young I absolutely agree with above that the Tom we see is a different form of Tom than who we’ve seen and read about in AW1–that Tom both wrote himself and Barbara into a pocket dimensional paradise and also wrote himself out of existence—but then how does our Tom come to be in AW2?

In Final Draft Initiation 7/8, right after speaking with Tom for the last time as Alan, you can find a TV in the lobby playing a clip of Casper Darling.

(From an earlier video you find in the Oceanview it appears as though some time after or during the events of Control, Dr Darling ended up lost or trapped in the Dark Place—possibly something we’ll see explicated on further in the Lake House DLC)

In this second clip of Dr Darling, he mentions that he’s been trapped in the dark place for 665 days and that science is proving to not be enough to escape—that he needs a different perspective, a partner, “an artist.”

And instantly our young Tom Zane appears. Darling says Tom “looks familiar” and Tom says Darling “sounds familiar” (and looks quite fit). Tom offers Dr Darling a drink and they walk off screen chattering about a partnership, about using art in a scientific manner, with trial and error, to escape the dark place.

Now we all know that Matthew Porretta live acts Darling but voice acts for Alan, and once the Control and AW universes were linked I figured that point would just be kind of glossed over, but this is Sam Lake and Remedy, why would they gloss over a p(l)othole when they could turn it into it’s own little spiral/lake/ocean?

I think that when Darling asked for an artist, the Dark Place gave him Tom/took on his form, and in their collaboration they made/became Alan.

Alan’s writing style of trying different plot elements in scenes until he finds the correct sequence to “make it stick” and move through the dark place is Darling’s “scientific” trial and error approach to art. And it’s not science if you don’t write it down.

The game already tells us that Tom, Alan, and Scratch aren’t different people wearing the same face, they’re the same person—Ahti and the Anderson brothers refer to Alan exclusively as Tom—Saga realized at the end of Return 7 and then Alan explicitly says that Scratch was the dark presence inside him.

And while the spiral nature of the story makes it hard to give any credence to a certain timeline (and Tom specifically says he wrote Yötön Yö with Alan’s help in the dark place) the first appearance of an “Alan Wake” character was Tom’s performance as a character with that name in his film.

My final bit of evidence to this theory is the very last line of the game in the Final Draft version—Alan comes back to life, third eye wide open, tells Alex(Sam) and Saga that “the ending worked, Scratch is gone.”

“And so I Return. With me I bear the torch of knowledge. The light, the miracle illuminated. The master of two worlds… No. The master of many worlds.”

And who else seeks mastery of many worlds?

I think that Alan Wake is the result of a partnership between a scientist and an artist coming together in attempt not just to escape the Dark Place, but to understand it and know it completely. To Control it.

why zane didn't get old? the dark place doesn't prevent people from aging here, barbara got old, alan too. what's up with zane not looking his nineties?

#alan wake 2 spoilers #final draft spoilers #seriously if you haven’t played final draft don’t read this I explicitly say what happens at the end

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wkemeup · 4 years ago

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Back to Bourbon Street

summary: When you’re badly injured on a mission, Bucky works desperately to keep you alive. Only, it might not be enough. pairing: bucky x reader word count: 6.7k warnings: canon level violence, hurt!reader, poison, brink of death cuddling, angst with a happy ending

There is a moment of clarity amidst the chaos of the battlefield; a brief, impossible moment that allows Bucky to take hold of a peace he’s been missing for decades. The perfect storm of violence and adrenaline is one he’s familiar with, something he knows well enough to allow his mind to take a step back and give control to his instincts.

Left jab. Right hook. Kick. Swipe the leg. Shoot.

The sound of the chopper above is muffled. The shouts of the men rushing at him with weapons and malice are indistinguishable. His body moves of its own accord and this is what makes him untouchable. Even with the Winter Soldier buried to the deepest parts of his mind, Bucky finds a relief in letting go of the control, of allowing an untethered detachment to rise to the surface just long enough to get the job done.

Bodies in his wake, blood on his hands, and his mind elsewhere.

That is, until you come into view.

Elegant in your movements, exceptional in your ability, you’re teasing Sam on the coms as you duck under the swing of a mercenary and clip him on the chin on your way up. You’re laughing, bright enough that it carries the several feet away to where Bucky is in hand to hand with a combatant half his size.

He pauses, taken back by how clear your laugh comes through when the rest of the world seems muffled and distant. It’s not enough to give the scrawny opponent an advantage, because even as Bucky watches you with an awe and disbelief, his left arm snakes around the man’s throat and hurtles him fifty feet away with little effort.

Amongst enemy lines filled with bad guys and guns, amongst the blinding snowfall and the blistering wind, amongst blood staining crystalized white upon the frozen dirt, you capture the entirety of his focus. Clear as day. Spotlight down from the sky. A wonder to behold.

You catch his eye and for a moment his heart skips completely because you smile at him. A light breaking through a sea of shadows, wrinkling up by your eyes, a giggle in your chest, and Bucky’s knees nearly give out from under him.

You must notice the fluster burning hot on his cheeks and you start to laugh; that same beautifully, sweet sound that shouldn’t belong on a battlefield. He smiles back.

But the moment lasts longer than it should. It’s something too kind for the evil you’re surrounded with and it’s taken away in a matter of seconds when Bucky sees the sharp reflection of a blade flicker under the haze of sunlight.

His stomach drops as if he’s stepped off the edge of the cliff, as if he’s falling hundreds of feet into a dark ravine to the icy waters below, and he barely feels the sharp burn of a bullet as it skims his right shoulder.

“Y/n!” he screams, wasting no time in firing fatal shots to the men around him before he rushes towards you.

But he’s trudging through mud and quicksand and his limbs are fighting through the resistance of ocean currents. He’s trapped in a nightmare, he’s certain of it, because his body is failing him in the one place it’s not supposed to. Time slows down as he watches the flash of panic in your eyes.

He’s still a few feet away when the knife embeds itself in your stomach.

Something else takes over; maybe it's the Winter Soldier, maybe it’s something darker that has always resided inside of him, lying in wait, but his vision fills with red as he watches you clutch at the shoulders of your assailant, lips parted in shock, chest heaving as you glance down at the knife buried in your gut. A sickening smile curves up on the man’s face and he drops you to the ground.

Bucky only vaguely registers the bodies that fall around him as he empties his clip. He can't look at you now, not as blood starts to seep around your suit and drip into the snow, so he focuses the brunt of his tunnel vision to the man wielding the knife. The satisfied grin drops as he notices Bucky raise his weapon. It only takes one shot, but Bucky fires six.

By the time he reaches you, he’s skidding on his knees into the snow. It soaks into his suit and sends shivers into his spine in unpleasant memories of the ice, but he pays it little mind as he bends down to assess the damage. His hands hover over the blade, almost afraid to touch you, and he resides to keep the knife secure until he can safely remove it.

“Hey, Barnes,” you mutter weakly and it snaps Bucky from his trance. He looks up to see you smiling at him, though your eyes are fluttering shut. Your breathing is shallow.

“Don’t talk right now,” Bucky warns you because he can see the energy draining away. It’s happening too quick. The blade doesn’t appear as though it’s nicked any major arteries, and yet, you look as though it plunged straight through your heart.

You chuckle, though it’s faint and you wince in the effort. “Sick of my voice already?”

Bucky shakes his head, astounded how you can still tease him in your position. “You kidding me? Not a chance.”

He reaches up to press a finger to the coms to get ahold of someone, anyone, to get you airlifted out of here, only to find it slipped out of his ear in the struggle. A quick glance back behind him and he knows he’ll never find it amongst the snow. He clenches his jaw and tried not to let the panic show as he looks for yours.

“Lost mine, too,” you mumble, gesturing to the broken pieces in the snow beside you. One of your attackers must have hit you hard enough to dislodge it and slammed it under his heel to cause that much damage.

Bucky pulls in a deep breath, glancing up to the sky in search of Sam, only to find a dark cast of clouds carrying over. On the ground, dozens of mercenaries are engaged with the rest of the Shield team and more are piling out from the woodwork.

“I have to get you out of here,” Bucky resides. He doesn’t have a plan, but he knows it’s not safe where you are. He slips a hand under your knees, another around your back, and hoists you into his arms. He’s lucky the blade is small enough that it stays nestled in place as he carries you away from the field.

He tries not to think of what would happen if a mercenary caught up with him now. He was defenseless with you in his arms and there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d sacrifice you to save himself.

The wind whips around the trees, snow stinging on his cheeks as it builds in the scruff on his cheeks. You curl into his neck as best you can and he knows it’s subconscious, that it doesn’t mean much more than you seeking out the warmth of his body, but it doesn’t stop the trace of a smile that pushes at his cheeks.

“Stay with me, alright?” he pleads, though he’s not sure you can hear him. It earns a tired hum in response.

A storm is approaching quickly judging by the dark overcast of clouds and the snow on his boots that inches up higher along his shins with every step. If the blade doesn’t kill you, the exposure will, and Bucky starts to pick up his pace.

The field is nothing but a distant haze by the time he reaches an unmarked dirt road. He must have walked miles with you in his arms, fading in and out of consciousness, waking you up every few paces when your eyes started to flutter closed. The relief is overwhelming when he spots a cabin at the end of the road, obstructed by trees and overgrown weeds. Abandoned.

“Almost there,” he tells you and you curl up tighter against him. A whine leaves your lips and he picks up the pace.

Bucky doesn’t bother with picking the lock and slams his foot to the most vulnerable angle of the door instead. It whips open to reveal an empty living room; dark, with cobwebs hanging in the corners and dust upon the mantle. He rushes inside to escape the painful sting of the wind and the snowfall as it piles outside the door. His footprints are already swept away in the impending storm.

“You’re alright, hold on,” Bucky mumbles, blindly searching around the room until he can lower you onto the couch. He wipes away as much of the dust as he can as he eases you against the cushions. Your face scrunches up in pain and he knows how hard you’re trying to hide it from him.

He brushes a hand over your forehead and it startles him when he finds it burning hot. He doesn't have a lot of time.

“I’ll be right back.”

“No! Wait--”

He freezes, stunned when he hears your voice so clearly. Your hand wraps at his wrist, clenching so tight it would have hurt if it wasn’t constructed of solid metal. When he meets your eye, he finds a pain stab straight through his chest, because he’s become so used to your light and joy and charm that the fear etched into your features ruins him completely.

“Bucky, don’t go.”

His heart splinters.

“I need to find a first aid kit. I’ve got to clean that wound before it gets infected,” he explains as gently as he can, sinking down to his knees beside you. You nod at his words, but you’re unconvinced.

“I won’t leave you,” he adds with a little more conviction.

His relationship to you is complicated; filled with teasing smiles and playful tension in the sparring ring, late night talks and comfortable silence. You were the first person he trusted in Shield outside of Steve and Sam, the first to make him laugh until his stomach hurt, the first to accept him completely and entirely as the man he is, not who he was in his youth or what Hydra made him to be. You didn’t ask questions, didn’t expect him to be anything he wasn’t.

He cares for you and he knows, at least on some level, you must care for him, too. He can't imagine that anyone would be as sweet as you are with him if you didn’t. There’s too much violence to overlook, too much evil ingrained into his veins. You don’t seem to mind and Bucky wonders most days if you’re not simply an angel sent from heaven itself with the extent of absolution you grant to him.

So it’s not a question. There’s no second guessing. He won’t leave you.

“I’ll be right back,” he presses again, eyes flickering to the knife in your side. “I promise.”

You nod, letting go of his wrist, but he can tell you’re still afraid. He recognizes it in himself, how he’s felt as though if he closed his eyes for even a second, he might convince himself it was all a dream and he’ll wake up right back in Hydra’s cell. He realizes then that you’re wondering if Bucky steps out of your view, he might disappear entirely and you’ll be alone, facing the impending darkness on your own.

“Hey, remember that summer in New Orleans?” Bucky starts, hoping to ease your panic through the sound of his voice as he slips from the room. “Sam was walking around Bourbon Street with a dozen beaded necklaces and tripping over his own feet?”

Bucky can vaguely hear you chuckle weakly from the living room as he rummages through the drawers in the bathroom.

He continues. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen Sam that wasted before. I had to carry him up three flights of stairs to his room.”

Shifting through old toothpaste containers, wash rags, makeup brushes, Bucky knelt down under the sink in search of anything he can use. He grabs the clean towels and an ace bandage hidden behind the pipes and moves onto the first bedroom. He still needs something to close the wound.

“Idiot passed out on me before midnight,” Bucky calls out to the living room, stealing a glance at you to make sure your eyes were still open. You smile at him, faded and faint, but he continues on. “You called when we didn’t show up to the bar, remember? You didn’t think you could keep up with Natalia’s tolerance and you wanted to push some of your drinks off on me.”

Bucky is surprised when his lips curve up into a smile at the memory. It was the first time anyone managed to convince him to stay a few days passed the scheduled mission. He always had such a hard time saying no to you.

“Think that might have been the first night I went out dancing since the forties. It was a little different than what I was used to but the music had the same soul to it,” Bucky continues as he searches under the bed, through the closet, shoving aside old clothes and shoe boxes. He can feel the panic rising, though he keeps his voice as calm as he can manage. His hands are trembling until he finds a small white box tucked into the back corner. Red cross on the top.

It’s missing a few pieces inside but it’s enough. Relief surges through him and Bucky makes his way back out to the living room.

“Don’t know if I would have let anyone else drag me away from the bar long enough to get a whole song out of me,” Bucky says as he holds up the kit for you to see and quickly moves to the kitchen to wash his hands.

“You’re a good dancer, Barnes,” you mutter out feebly, smiling fondly at the memory.

It’s a good memory, he thinks. A little faded with time, but he can still recall how you felt pressed against his chest, how his left nestled along the small of your back, his right intertwined with yours. Slow movements, swaying gently to the soft strum of the guitar.

Bucky smiles backs at you, pauses for just a moment to memorize the way your lips curve up so beautifully into your cheeks before he turns to the sink to wash his hands. The water comes out brown for the first few seconds before it clears up. He washes his hands quickly and gathers a bucket of water before he makes his way back to you.

As he kneels down at your side, he tries to mask the flash of panic that courses through him as he catches sight of the blood seeped into the couch under your back and the sweat dripping down your temples. It’s wet in your hair and you don’t seem to be in much pain anymore. Just tired. Your eyelids fall heavy.

“Hey,” Bucky calls sharply, shaking your shoulder a little harsher than he intended. Your eyes snap open. “You need to stay awake for me, alright? You know I’m lousy at this stuff. Need you to make sure I’m doing it right.”

You laugh, though Bucky can tell it’s forced. You both know he’s lying. He’d tended to wounds of his own far worse than this before. But Bucky doesn’t care about causing himself pain. He powers through it, uses it as a means of strength. He knows how badly this will hurt you and he hesitates as he holds a pair of scissors to your suit.

“I trust you,” you say so quietly Bucky isn’t certain he even heard it. You nod at him.

Bucky takes a deep breath as he cuts away at your suit and removes the fabric away from the wound.

“It’s going to bleed a lot,” he warns. “Don’t let it scare you.”

You nod, staring up at the ceiling as you try to prepare yourself.

Bucky doesn’t say anything else, because he knows it will make this harder. Your chest rises a little quicker, hands clench into fists, and it takes nearly everything Bucky has not to hold your hand instead of the hilt of the knife.

It happens quickly. He pulls the knife from your stomach in one fluid motion. You gasp at the sudden sensation, a cry in your voice as you bite down on your fist to keep yourself from screaming, and Bucky presses a towel to your side to absorb the gush of blood and it drenches the cloth in a matter of seconds.

He removes it in favor of a clean one and drops the bloodied rag onto the floor. The next towel doesn’t turn red as quickly and Buck begins to exhale a sigh of relief. The blood flow is slowing down. It’s a good sign. It’ll give him the chance to clean the wound and stitch you up enough to keep you together until rescue shows up.

It takes a while before Bucky dares to lift the cloth. It’s heavy in his hands and dripping with blood, but the wound doesn’t appear to be freshly bleeding. Bucky gets to work, humming quietly to himself as he cleans the wound as best he can. He can feel your eyes on him, watching as he tends to the wound and mumbles under his breath, but he doesn’t mind. You’re awake. It's all that matters to him.

“You really need to do that?” you ask nervously as Bucky begins to thread a needle.

Bucky shrugs. “There’s a stapler in the office if you prefer that?”

You laugh, enough to cause a bit of blood to seep out from the cleaned wound and Bucky presses a hand to your stomach to stop the bleeding.

“Hey! Don’t mess with my work!” he teases, thankful for a moment where you feel more like yourself than you had since he picked you from the snowbank on the battlefield. You nod, trying to contain your smile, though its weak and fading.

“My apologies, Sergeant Barnes.”

“That’s Dr. Barnes to you,” Bucky quips back, distracting you long enough to slip the thread through your skin. You wince, hand gripping in tight to the straps on his shoulder.

“Yeah?” you mutter out tensely. “What decade did you get your medical degree in, Doctor? Feels pretty amateur from where I’m sitting.”

“You should be nicer to me, doll. I’m the one with the needle in my hand,” Bucky smirks. Only two more threads to go before the wound is closed and you’re taking it like a champ. Pride swells in his chest and he has the urge to kiss you, but quickly pushes the feeling down.

“Imagine how I must feel,” you scoff playfully, exhaling a heavy breath of relief as Bucky sits back and cuts the thread.

Bucky grins, brushing a clean cloth over the surface to wipe away the excess blood. “You did good. Try to get some rest now, alright? I’ll be here.”

He lifts a blanket up over your body and lets it lay against your chest. You smile at him again and he’s certain it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. He stands to clean up the mess around the couch when your hand catches his.

“Thank you.” You squeeze his hand, rub your thumb over his wrist, something so tender and loving that it nearly jolts his heart straight from his chest.

“Anytime, doll,” he replies as even as his voice will let him. By the time he finishes cleaning the bloodied rags and rinsing the red stains from his hands, you’ve already fallen asleep.

Bucky takes his time as he gathers a few stray blankets and lays them down on the floor beside the couch. He knows there’s a room with a decent bed just a few feet down the hall but he meant what he promised you. He wasn’t going to leave your side.

So, he lays down on the hardwoods, rests a pillow under his head, and stars up at the ceiling; content to listen to the soft sounds of your breathing until they too lull him to sleep.

***

He wakes abruptly a few hours later. It’s dark outside, nearly pitch black in the cabin, and Bucky rubs his hands over his tired eyes before he realizes what woke him up.

Quiet whimpers above him, muffled, pained. You’re crying.

Bucky jolts up in a panic. He kneels beside you to find you curled up on your side, knees tucked to your stomach, tears streaming down your cheeks. You're sweating again, and it drenches into your hair.

“Y/n?” Bucky begs, hands hovering over you, terrified to make it worse. “Y/n, talk to me.”

“It hurts,” you cry, barely able to mutter the words out. “It hurts... bad. S-Somethings wrong.”

Bucky nods, rushing up to the fireplace to give some light. It takes him longer than it should and he nearly shouts out in frustration before it sparks and a flame bursts onto the wood. It’s a faint flicker, but it’s enough.

“Let me see,” he requests, and you release the blanket to let Bucky's slide it off of you. He helps guide you to lay flat on the couch and he knows how much it hurts you because you’ve bitten down so hard on your lip, it’s bleeding. You choke back a cry.

“I know, sweetheart,” Bucky soothes, running a hand down your arm to find you shaking so badly it trembles right into his palm. You’re fully sobbing as he tries to pry your hands away from the wound. “I’m so sorry, but you have to let me see it, honey. Come on now. It’s alright.”

You pull your hands away, clutching them tight into the couch cushions and it's then that Bucky sees the series of large, angry, purple veins extending from the wound. Jagged lines protruding out across your stomach, stretching up towards your chest to your heart.

Bucky can’t find his breath as he stumbles back. On the ground at his feet, the faint flicker of the knife catches his eye in the dim light of the fire behind him, and he bends down to pick it up. On its surface, hardly visible, is a sticky thin substance; green in color, bitter in its stench. Poison.

“I’m gonna die, aren’t I?”

Bucky’s eyes snap up to you as the knife slips from his hand. It clashes against the hardwoods and echoes through the painful silence in the cabin, only obstructed by the muffled whistle of the wind outside and your faint attempts to stifle the sob etching its way through your throat.

“No,” Bucky replies quickly, though his voice wavers. You’re unconvinced as tears slip past your eyes and you drop his gaze in favor of the ceiling tiles.

“No,” he tries again, firmer as he kneels by your side. He runs a hand over your forehead to brush away the sweat, soothes his palm against your face and traces the line of your cheekbone until you dare to meet his eye again. “I’m not going to let that happen. I’m not letting you die today; you hear me? You’re going to be just fine.”

“Bucky...”

“You’re going to be fine,” he says again, determined. “Starks probably got a whole branch of the military searching for you by now. We both know how much of a soft spot he’s got for you. Hell, I’m lucky you’re the one I’m MIA with. Stark wouldn’t waste an AI suit on tracking me down. But you? Come on. He won’t sleep until you’re home safe.”

Bucky doesn’t know why he’s trying to draw a smile out of you. He’s terrified and he knows you are too, but dammit, all he ever wants to do is make you smile.

“Tony would send more than an AI for you.”

Bucky chuckles, shaking his head. “You underestimate how much he dislikes me.”

“It’s been better, hasn’t it?” you ask, and he knows you’re trying to distract yourself from the pain, so Bucky nods.

“It has. He hasn’t tried to kill me lately, so I’d consider that an improvement.”

You smile and Bucky’s whole world brightens around him. Sunshine through the night sky, past the dark clouds and the blizzard outside the window, flowers blooming through the snow. It's perfect. You’re perfect.

But then the pain sweeps in again and steals your smile away, warps it and twists it until you’re crying so hard you can barely breathe and Bucky is helpless but to watch.

There’s nothing he can do. He doesn’t know what the poison is, let alone how to counteract it. He doesn't often wish Stark was around, but he does in this moment. He’d know what to do. He could save you, take away this pain, in a way Bucky couldn’t.

He finds himself looking to the windows, watching as the snow continues to fall in blurring sweeps enough that he can’t see the trees beyond the clearing. He figures at least another foot of snow has piled up in the last hour but maybe if he could find the right layers in the back bedroom, he could make himself useful, venture out to find a nearby town or a phone or --

“Don’t.”

Your voice is barely a whisper but it punctures straight through to Bucky’s heart.

“Please don’t go,” you mutter out. “I don’t want to be alone when... when I...”

“Hey,” Bucky exhales, shaking his head, “hey, come on. What did I say? You’re not dying today, remember?”

He tears his eyes away from the window, forgets his plan because he knows you’re right. He can’t leave you. He wants to believe that his hope is enough, that his insistence will sway fate herself, but the truth is he doesn’t know. He can’t do much of anything at all, but he starts to wonder if there is something he can do to shoulder even an ounce of your pain.

Slowly, Bucky slips an arm under your back and gently guides you forward just enough so that he can slide into the space behind you. You mold against him as he eases his way onto the couch beside you, gathering you up into his arms. He runs a tender hand over your stomach along the spidery veins around the knife wound and you don’t wince. It seems to come and go in waves.

The next wave comes quickly and Bucky holds you through it the best he can. He’s never felt so helpless in his life; arms wrapped tight around you, a hand soothing along your arm as he tries to reassure you that this will pass, that Stark’s on his way, that you’ll be okay, but he doesn’t know if he’s telling the truth anymore.

You exhale as the pain subsides again and you’re drenched in sweat. Bucky is too, but he doesn’t mind, not if it means he can give you even an ounce of comfort through this. You curl against him, careful of the fresh stitches in your side.

“I’m scared.” It comes out broken and aching and Bucky’s heart lurches.

“I know, honey. But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, alright? I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”

It’s all he can say.

His own helplessness makes him sick.

There’s a prolonged silence and Bucky finds himself keeping a finger against your pulse, just to be sure. He feels like screaming or crying or maybe both, but he exhales a steady breath and tries to calm his heart rate instead because he knows you can hear it.

“I’m glad it’s you,” you say after a while, voice barely louder than a whisper. It’s faint, fading, and Bucky bites down on his cheek. “I’m glad... that if this is... if this is it... you’re here.”

It breaks his heart, shatters it to pieces. He’d trade places with you if he could, absorb your pain tenfold if it meant you’d survive this, but he knows it’s a fantasy. Bucky Barnes stopped allowing himself to indulge in such dreams a long time ago.

So, he holds you a little tighter, dares to press a kiss to the crown of your head, and rubs gentle circles along your spine. He can feel your pulse weaken, how it slips to beats a little longer apart, how your breaths fall shallow and he’s not ready to lose you yet. He’s not.

“How about when we get out of here, we go dancing?”

You don’t say anything, but he can feel your smile against his chest, the warm of your breath as you exhale a tired chuckle. It takes nearly all of your energy.

“Been thinking about it a lot since New Orleans,” Bucky continues. “It could be fun, you know? Get dressed up. Listen to good music. Beautiful woman in my arms. Sounds nice.”

“You should... You should go,” you tell him and he barely recognizes your voice. He clenches his jaw until it aches, brushes at the tear in his eyes you’re too weak to lift your head to notice.

“I’m not going with anyone but you, so no deal.”

“Bucky...”

“No deal. You or nothing, doll.” Bucky finds himself smiling through the tears. “You’re my only dance partner, okay? Can’t be having just anyone step all over my toes.”

You hum and it’s so faint he can hardly hear it.

Bucky clears his throat, swallowing back the lump that threatens to choke him. “We’ll have to go back to that bar, okay? The one off of Bourbon Street. Live music only. I can show you how we used to dance back in my day. I’m sure you’ll be wonderful at it.”

A smile breaks through the tears as he imagines spinning you under the soften glow of amber lights and the reflection of the moonlight through the windows, the roar of trumpets settling in his chest and the echo of your laugh etched right into his soul. You’d smile at him and his whole world would stop spinning.

“What do you say, doll?” Bucky sighs, leaning down to kiss the crown of your head. He brushes the hair away from your eyes, sticky and wet with sweat.

But you don’t say anything and suddenly, it’s impossibly silent.

Bucky stops breathing because he can’t hear the crackle of the fire place or the wind barreling against the cabin walls. He can’t hear the heavy snow as it brushes against the windows. He can’t hear your breaths, can’t feel the pulse as he reaches up to your neck, and that silence begins to feel like a void, like he’s screaming, but it’s all inside his head.

“Y/n?” he chokes out. There’s no reply, but still, as if to break his own heart a little more, he tries again. “Y/n? Please... don’t do this. Come on. Come back to me.”

Nothing.

“No... no no no... don’t give up on me,” Bucky pleads, tears burning hot in his eyes. “Y/n...”

He barely notices as the cabin door is blown open, as the wind screams outside and snow barrels in through the frame. He can’t focus on much of anything else as he tries to move your lifeless body in his arms, trying to wake you from the edge of a paralyzing darkness. He doesn’t recognize the blur of red and yellow as it crashes into the room.

“Banner! I need the antidote, now!”

You’re being pulled from his arms and all Bucky wants to do is hold on tighter.

“Barnes, you need to let go of her.”

The voice is calmer now, gentle, and Bucky allows himself to meet Tony’s eye. There’s a kindness there he doesn’t expect, an understanding. Tony’s helmet has been discarded and Bucky notices quickly he bares the same redness in the whites of his eyes, the same dark circles beneath. Tony’s hand lays upon your shoulder.

“Let me save her, Barnes,” Tony tries again as Bruce barrels in through the door in a parka a few sizes too big for his frame. He’s clutching a syringe in his hand, desperately trying to hold up the hood around his head.

Bucky nods numbly and releases you from his hold. Tony and Bruce lower you carefully down to the ground, laid upon the blankets he slept on less than an hour earlier. Tony presses his hand to your chest and an electrical spark jolts through your body. He tries again, and still, nothing.

Bruce pulls off the cap of the syringe and without hesitation, plunges it directly into a vein and releases the serum inside. He sits back on his heels and waits.

It's agonizing. The seconds feel like hours and Bucky is certain he’ll never learn to smile again, until suddenly, the purple veins along the knife wound begin to retract. They crawl along your skin and shrink back to the wound until they’ve disappeared entirely.

But then, the most beautiful sound.

You gasp for air, chest rising high off the ground before you sink back against the blankets. FRIDAY reports your pulse, says you’re stable, and Bucky presses his hands over his face to stop the sob before it consumes him whole. It’s made of relief.

“You did good, Barnes,” Tony says as Bucky lowers his hands.

He’s suspicious of the praise, but as Tony runs a hand over your hair, soothes it away from your face, Bucky knows he meant what he said.

“We should get her to the cradle,” Bruce says, shivering as he glances back to the door. “Helen will want to fix that wound up and run some tests to make sure the antidote worked.”

Tony covers you with the blankets as best as he can and gathers you into his arms. Bucky tries to ignore the lurch in his stomach as you press your nose to Tony’s neck, seeking out his warmth. He doesn’t say anything else before he flies out the front door, back to the quinjet.

Bruce starts to make his way to the door when he realizes Bucky isn’t following behind. He pauses and glances back at Bucky over his shoulder.

“How did you know?” Bucky asks weakly, staring at the empty syringe.

“A few of the Shield agents came back from the field with the same symptoms,” Bruce explains. He scratches the back of his neck. “We wanted to be prepared if either of you were infected by the poison.”

Bucky nods. He feels empty.

“She’s going to be alright, Barnes,” Bruce says and he places a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It surprises him but he can feel the tension slip away as Bruce squeezes the muscle tightly. He gestures to the door. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

***

Bucky’s right hand is throbbing. Blood trickles down from the open scars on his knuckles and it smears into the punching bag. Beads of sand embed themselves into the wounds but he presses on because it’s better than the pit in his stomach, of seeing you laid up in the med wing with wires attached you and a monitor displaying the weak rhythm of your pulse.

It’s been days since you’ve been home, since the antidote was administered and Helen properly stitched up the stab wound in your stomach, and yet you’re still unconscious, barely breathing on your own. Banner can’t make sense of it, but he suspects it’s because the poison was in your system longer than the others.

Bucky can’t help but wonder that if he never left the field with you, if he had just stayed put and fought off whoever tried to come near, that maybe they could have saved you. Maybe he’s the reason you're still fighting for your life. Maybe if he wasn’t around at all you'd be safer, you'd be alive.

The bag dislodges from the ceiling and slams into the wall in an echoing thud.

Bucky sighs, slumping his shoulders down as he kicks at the sand streaming from the bag onto the gym floors. He turns to pick up the next bag in the long line leading from the storage closet when he stops dead in his tracks.

You’re standing in the center of the gym, still dressed the pale blue scrubs from the med wing, holding onto the edge of a weight machine for support. There is a mark in your arm from where the IV line should be, tape residue around your mouth from the tubes. It’s a miracle you’re on your feet at all and all Bucky wants to do is run towards you, wrap you tight into his arms, just to convince himself that you’re real, that you’re standing right there, but instead, he holds his ground. He’s turned to stone.

“Thought I’d find you here,” you chuckle, your voice raspy and airy, but it has a strength to it again. It sounds like you.

Bucky grips his hands at his side. “I didn’t... I didn’t know you were awake.”

You shrug. “Don’t think the nurses do either. Helen might be mad at me when she finds an empty bed in my room.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Y/n,” he says, his gaze focused on the floor. He pushes aside the heavy stone sitting in his chest as he starts to walk towards you to usher to towards the med wing. “I should get you back...”

“What else was I supposed to do when I woke up and you weren’t there?”

You’re smiling, teasing. There’s a laugh in your voice, and still Bucky can’t help the pang in his stomach. It twists and turns and threatens to consume him whole.

He rolls his eyes. “Maybe not wander around the tower after being in a coma for four days?”

The smile lingers upon your face despite his tone. It doesn’t seem to bother you at all, doesn’t throw you off your game, doesn’t puncture even a crack into the shield of your charm. No – you smile at him.

“You broke your promise, Barnes,” you say simply. “I’m here to scold you for it. Think you may owe me a few takeout nights before you’re out of the doghouse.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, daring to challenge your gaze. “What promise?”

“You left.”

Bucky feels the hitch in his lungs before the flash of guilt sweeps over his gut. You notice it just as quick because the teasing smile falls in an instant. He stumbles back away from you, slipping out from the extent of your outstretched hand.

“It’s better that way, Y/n,” he mumbles. “I’m the reason you ended up there.”

“Don’t you dare do that,” you snap, enough so that it startles him.

You struggle to walk the few steps closer to him, your legs wobbling underneath you and he wonders how you even made it across the tower and down five floors to the gym without anyone stopping you. You reach for his hand and because Bucky can’t bear to see you struggle, he offers his support. You balance yourself on the edge of the weight machine beside him, one hand anchored in his left forearm.

“Y/n,” he starts, taking in a deep breath, but you cut him off quickly.

“No. There is no room for the Bucky Barnes guilt parade here, okay?” you argue. “You saved my life, Bucky. You can’t possibly stand there and think for a second that you’re somehow to blame for anything less.”

He shakes his head. The guilt and shame that burns deep into his chest is one he knows well. It lives inside of him, festering, waiting for moments like these.

“If I hadn’t taken you from the field, if I got that blade out sooner, Banner could have given you the antidote hours earlier and you wouldn’t have—”

“I would have bled out before he had the chance,” you press, pulling yourself a little closer. “Those other agents? They had scrapes, Bucky. Nicks. The poison only started to affect me after you removed the knife. Bruce thinks it reacted to the oxygen in the air. Waiting to remove the blade, closing the wound... Bucky, you prolonged it as long as you could have. You gave me more time, gave Bruce and Tony time to find us. You saved me.”

Your hand squeezes at the solid metal of his forearm and Bucky knows he can't really feel it. He can only register the synapses faintly, as if they were distant, far away; it reads it like data and numbers, but there’s something in the way the pads of your fingertips press into the divots of vibranium that makes his breath hilt. His stare focuses on your thumb as it rubs soothing sweeps along the crevices and it takes him a moment before he dares to meet your eye.

When he does, all that is waiting for him is that same smile that lit up across a battlefield, that pushed through when you were on the brink of an endless darkness, that cast away the shadows and demons that swarmed in his chest just with the wrinkles up by your eyes. He felt lighter. Safer.

“Now,” you start, sliding your palm down his forearm until you can intertwine your hand in his own. You curl your fingers around his and you don’t seem to be bothered in the slightest by the harsh chill of the metal. You smile at him and for the first time in a while, Bucky finds himself smiling back. “I believe you owe me a dance, Sergeant.”

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes x you

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thekillingjoke-haha · 3 years ago

Text

We’re Batshit Crazy

@spnquotebingo Word count:1,609

Summary: Love isn't all that perfect sometimes love is crazy especially when the Hero is in love with said crazy.

Gotham AU

Jason Todd(Jensen Ackles) x Villan!Reader

Enemies and Lovers (none of that "to" bs)

Gotham Recasting: Batman=John, Dick Grayson(second Robin not first) =Sam ,Tim Drake=Adam, Joker(ledger style)=Lucifer, Harley Quinn=Lilith,ect.

Warnings: Mention of death, blood, guns, and violence

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The mad laughter rung out into the night sky as the purple Lamborghini hit corners with violently sharp turns. "Oh puddin I just love family night!~" The pale platinum blonde giggled as the man with green dyed hair licked his smiling lips. A bubble of laughter came from the back seat he turned around to see his princess looking out the small back window. "Batsy batsy batsy" Her low/high pitched giggle caused a crazy chain reaction as the bat mobile hurried to catch up. "Always ruining our fun,huh,princess?" The clown king shifted his gray-ish blue order into the mirror grinning making the scars on his face raise into a sinister smile at the look of pure chaos in his daughter's e/c eyes. "Not tonight! Not on my birthday!!" She said as she smiled reaching under the seat to pull out a Tommy gun. Climbing to the front seat sitting on her mothers lap she leaned out the passenger window. "Go back to the Rat cave your not gonna put a downer on my weekend!" Y/n yelled shooting off round towards the tires,windshield,and headlights.

The mobile didn't seem to have a scratch as as a motorcycle pulled up beside it. Slipping back in the car the younger women pouted looking at get parents. "He called his little birdie no doubt the replacements in the car." Y/n huffed as she dug around for more fire power. "Puddin we have a visitor.~" The red mask gazed at us as he lifted a forearm pistol. Shots were fired and Joker took a hard right almost like tron the motorcycle quickly turned into a ally to avoid being hit. "Sorry Princess might have to cut tonight shot." He said licking his lips as a thump came from the roof making the youngest clown snarl her eye crazed as she shot above her as the purple car swerved wildly. "YOU'RE RUINING MY BIRTHDAY,BATS!!!" Y/n cackled madly a mixture of her parents laughed till the magazine ran out.

They got to one of their warehouses where Jokers men were armed to the teeth. The clown mask had black soulless eyes and immediately fired the moment the batmobile entered. Y/n skipped out of the purple Lamborghini she got on her tippy toes and kissed her dad on the cheek. "I got the hooded punk. Can you clip the bats wings for me...a little present?!" He laughed as he armed himself with a shotgun. "Anything for my princess." The f/c sf/c female clown skipped away knowing that the motorcycle riding vigilante was hot on her tail. That's how she found herself on the roof tops jumping the gaps as heavy footfalls followed. Her loud laugh echoed as she leaped to a smaller building hiding behind a vent the moment the brown leather jacket came into view she tackled the tall man. They were both panting as a grin pulled on the clowns lips.

Y/n POV

"Caught ya,Jay bird." I giggled pulling of the helmet his apple green eyes covered by a second mask stared at me he chuckled as his hand slipped above his head in mock surrender. "Yeah you caught me,beautiful." Leaning down I kiss him my hands pushed into his cheeks my thumb running over the scarred J. We've been dating for awhile now ever since dad kidnapped the second Robin at seventeen. I was fifteen at the time and dad had me at his side as he tortured him.I was always there to stitched him up and put burn cream after shock therapy I didn't know how we got attached maybe because he wanted to rebel a little by talking to me or someone around his age saw the same if not worse shit.

Six years ago(Y/n 15 Jason 17)

"Why are you helping me?" Looking up his head was strapped down along with his arms and legs. I shrugged my shoulders I knew who he was if I wiped off the make up and temp dyed my hair I was the honor student in the same class as him. Jason Todd anyone with eyes had a thing for him,but after removing his mask it wasn't hard to piece together who the bat fam is. "I know what my dad has planned for you Jay. This is just a band-aid on a gunshot wound and might I say that's very unhelpful." This was the first I spoke to him and it wasn't long before Dad beat him to death.

Two years later.

I sat in the back of the car as Frost drove. We just left the cemetery. "Why are we doing this,n/n." He asked looking in the rear view mirror at me. I'm seventeen now my thoughts screamed at me. Why was I trying to bring him back? "Because I crazy that why!" I giggled as we grew closer to the lazapit. He was dressed in a black suit with red tie his body sunk into the water as I waited. A loud gasp drew my attention as he shot up a white streak in his hair. "Heya sleeping beauty." Looking over in shock he lowly made his way looking like a baby deer. "I'm alive,but h-how?" His green eyes looked at me. "A Ghoul owed me a few favors I just asked to use his fountain of youth." Handing him a towel and some clothes. "Sorry about the outfit,but Arkham does have one size fits all." Jason chuckled as he started to dry off.I realized why I brought him back. I was crazy about him.

Two more years later(two years ago)

Jason wanted to stay dead he didn't go back to His dad and brother after he realized that neither of them tried and save him. It was sad to see,but it brought Jason closer to me and he started to trust me and I gave trust in return. Blood coated my hands while some was on my face. Looking at Jay some was speckled on his cheeks taking the pockets square out of the mobsters coat I wiped it off he looked down at me his arm slipped around my waist pulling me closer my breath hicked. "Will you be my girlfriend,my little jester?" A large smile grew on my face as my arms went around his neck pulling him down further. "Gladly,Jay bird." I kissed him not caring if my lipstick stained his lips and he didn't seem to care either as the kiss grew more intense. We shared our first kiss at nineteen surrounded by dead bodies as sirens and the unmistakable sound of the armed batmobile. At least he's as crazy about me as I am about him.

One year ago. (Jason POV for a sec)

I came to Bruce I hate to admit it but I needed advice about the one think he knew best. Women. It was just a couple of months ago he found out I was alive and shocker he managed to drive Dicky boy to Blüdhaven to get away from him to get his own image and not just Robin. Oh and surprise surprise when out of robins he had a spare like a tire and it's name was Tim. Nevermind that I stood across from Bruce in his home main office he had a frown on his face. "You're dating someone and its serious and I didn't know about it?" He asked trying to deduct everything. "I've been dating her ever since I came back. As strange as it might sound,but I want us to be something more." That's when the billionaire playboy stood up standing just a inch shorter then myself.

"Life is short Jason and you've experienced that first hand if you feel that both of you are perfect enough to be more then go for it." Perfect wasn't realistic nothing was ever perfect my life isn't perfect her life sure as hell isn't she's the clown princess I'm a bat son. Maybe that what makes us so good together the fact that it would have never really happened any other way life is just crazy like that.

Present

Staring into those vexing green eyes always brought me back. We're both twenty-one him being older only by a couple of months. "Happy birthday,gorgeous." His voice brought me back as my smile grew. We were standing up now he held a box wrapped in my two favorite colors. "Awe you shouldn't have." I grab it and opened it a gun was inside it was red and gold revolver it looked like my moms love/hate gun,but it said King/Queen. Looking at Jay I reached to hug him when suddenly he dropped to one knee pulling out a box with a beautiful f/c ring and ruby gem. "This feels over due. You took care of me when I was considered enemy number one. You brought me back from the grave when my own family didn't try. And this might sound stupid,but I had a crush on you in middle school you were one of the only people that didn't give me pity after Bruce adopted a street kid." He licked his lips as he gave of a small smile. "Together we are far from perfect, but we are good. You complete me...Y/n M/n Napier become my queen?" My eyes glossed over with tears my make up running down the pale foundation. "Oh my god of course!!!" I jumped into his arms hugging him tightly before letting him slip on the ring. "I love you." "I love you more crazy." I chuckle it sounded watery in my throat. "If I'm crazy then that makes two of us. You wanted to marry me." Yep we're both batshit crazy.

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A/n: Quote= We are far from perfect, but we are good. ~Supernatural

Is it just me or does Jensen look fucking hot as Red Hood?! I'm mean he's definitely a reason to move to Gotham

Well first crossover AU in my bingo card

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margarethx · 4 years ago

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I really don’t like going into topics like that, because I honestly care more about characters than actors who play them most of the time... I don’t feel like it’s my job to defend celebrities and actors, because I don’t owe them anything and I don’t know them, so I might be wrong... But the way some of you act about the whole situation with Anthony Mackie is abhorrent and I just can’t fully ignore it. So let’s sum it up.

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

1) Majority of the people who criticize Anthony for his words did not learn the full context. I just know they didn’t. They didn’t click to see the entire interview and analyze what was really said. They just saw a headline with some “scandalous” statement and started ranting about it without thinking.

2) Most of the fans who are the most loud and vicious about their criticism of Anthony Mackie in this situation sound like they would hate him no matter what he said. They were just waiting for him to do something wrong or semi-wrong and lached onto it the first chance they got.

3) It’s frankly embarassing that after 6 episodes of a popular Marvel show, dozens of media appearences, and hundreds of positive/neutral/wise/funny words said in different interviews Anthony was never really trending on the Internet, but the second he says something mildly controversial you all suddenly care so much about what he has to say... Okay...

4) Acting like race has nothing to do with this situation is just stupid. If you think that the fact that he’s Black is not in any way relevant in this "drama” you’re wrong and maybe you should rethink your opinions keeping that in mind.

5) I understand the initial reaction of the fandom being frustration and hurt, but no one is forcing us to voice our opinions the second we learn about something. You can read the full article, listen to the whole interview. Look at what other people are saying and then provide your own take on the issue. I feel like way too many people just heard that there’s some drama going on and typed the first thing that came to their minds without stopping to think. As always.

6) Even if you don’t agree with everything that Anthony said claiming that his words make him homophobic is weird. His statement was vague and could be interpretend as something... ugh... “problematic” out of context, but if you actually listen to what he said you’d know what he meant. He really didn’t say: “I hate shipping Sam and Bucky, it’s gross and people who do that are awful”... Yet half the fandom acts like these are his actual words.

7) The website standing behind it is partially responsible for the backlash he got, because they framed his words in probably the worst possible way to promote the interview which I find incredibly unfair.

8) Also asking actors about shipping is not a great idea. It’s not their job to deal with fandoms who got angry about everything. And like I said: it doesn’t matter what his answer would be. Someone would hate him for it anyway. Also it’s not like Anthony’s opinion would matter to the Marvel Studios if they wanted to make Sambucky canon or not. I’m sure his view on this issue is entirely irrelevant to them. He’s not standing in your way to get some representation, come on.

9) By the way... Many of you don’t act like you care about representation if it’s not done in a very specific manner (something Mackie even spoke about in a way), so I don’t really trust that many of you actually give a shit about it, when it doesn’t fit your incredibly narrow interpretation of what should be represented... or when it doesn’t match your very specific aesthetic...

10) Some people brought it up and I was almost inclined to agree... “Platonic male friendhips are important! Just because you’re affectionate with other man doesn’t mean you’re gay” is usually a terrible argument used in fandoms by homophobes against making gay couples canon. But I feel like it’s a different thing when some random Twitter user says it and when it comes from a man who is asked over and over, and over, and over again how close exactly is he with his male co-worker that he likes in private life.

11) If you’ve seen other interviews done by Anthony Mackie (not just short clips promoting Marvel movies) you’d know that it’s not the first time he speaks about his opinions about the topic. It didn’t come out of nowhere. And I don’t think we should hold him to completely different standards just because he admitted to being more intolerant in the past, but few people are open enough to admit that and show they’re working to change. And maybe I’m biased, because I had to put actual effort into changing my worldview about some topics into a more progressive one before, but I feel like it’s important to give people time to re-learn after years of having worse opinions. Or to give them some benefit of the doubt and trust that they’re not your enemy, because they’re not always 100% perfect with their support.

12) Overall I just feel bad for him, because poor wording or not, I’m sure - judging by many of his previous statements - that he didn’t mean to say something harmful and yet everyone was ready to jump and hate him even more than they did before. At the end of the day he’s 40-something straight guy who has very limited experience with fandoms, so he (for a good reason) preferred to just avoid the topic. But he was pushed again and again to talk about it, until he finally said something that people didn’t like... Some of you were just wainting to have a weapon to use agains him... So, congratulations, now you have it.

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

... I’m just tired by this whole situation and disappointed in a lot of fans I previously liked. There were a few people who immediately jumped to criticize Mackie and judging by their words they didn’t really know what they were talking about. I had to change my opinion about few creators who I followed, because of their terrible behaviour after all of this and it honestly leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

And I’m not even a huge Anthony Mackie fan! As I’ve mentioned... I don’t like being too invested in actors lives, I just prefer to focus on their work and what they’ve created... with a few tiny exceptions. But seeing how the fandom reacted to his statement made me so annoyed and frustrated that it felt wrong to just be silent and pretend like nothings happening.

#sam wilson #bucky barnes #sambucky #tfatws #anthony mackie

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avinaccia · 4 years ago

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A Completely Objective and Logical Ranking of Every Hetalia Character Song

New character songs are dropping, I have too much time on my hands, let’s go.

Also here’s a Youtube playlist for the ~✨nostalgia✨~

Bring it on in the tags

71. Ah Legendary Class⭐The Awesome Me Highway [Prussia]: Absolutely tearing it up on the drums and on the vocal cords alike (I pray for Atsushi Kousaka). Great for the memes.

70. Happy Thoughts Museum [???]: This is listed as an official song but I had literally never heard of the title. Then I listened to it and BAM! Smack back to 2013 watching the teasers for the show on Funimation. Not sure I’d count it as a character song though...

69. (Nice) My Song that is written by me for me [Prussia]: Deafened me but I can appreciate the industrial grind.

68. My House is...Quiet. ~With the Trolls~ [Norway]: I have never heard this song, nor can I find any version of it online. By default it goes here and I am so sorry Norge.

67. Make a Wish to Santa♪ [Sealand]: The discordant notes and childish exuberance only serve to make this sound like a demonic plea to Santa to eliminate the singer’s enemies.

66. Heaven and Hell on Earth [Rome]: Rome sounds like he’s been in the corner of a restroom. Extra points for the metal version, minus points for the fact that the beach scene was replayed like 1764 times.

65. Canada Complete Introduction [Canada]: Quiet af until Kumacheerio shows up and blows out your speakers. they did you dirty my darling 😔

64. It’s Easy!!! [America]: I don't think any video of this has ever stayed up for more than 20 seconds. Sounds cool, but like I was listening to 20 different genres at once, someone make him calm down.

63. Bù Zàiyì the Small Stuff ☆ [China]: I cannot for the life of me find the complete song anywhere, clips have a cool beat though

62. Let's Boil Hot Water♪ [Italy]: Exactly what it says on the tin..though a bit too close to elevator music for my tastes.

61. The Fragrance of Early Summer [Japan]: Very ‘from the books’ Japan-esque song

60. Peace Sounds Nice…[Baltic Trio]: All well and good until the radio demon shows up

59. W●D●C ~World Dancing~ [America]: How a song can sound like it’s from 4 different decades at once is beyond me

58. Overflowing Passion [BFT]: This is just drunken karaoke and I have 0 clue what’s going on #iconicforallthewrongreasons

57. Ren●Ren●Renaissance♪ [Rome+Chibitalia]: Wholesome Grandpa with Grandson content - barring the fact that Italy sounds on the verge of a nervous breakdown and Rome has had too much wine.

56. Roma Antiqua [Rome]: Similar energy to any one of China’s songs - there’s a part of the song where it sounds like he’s singing in the shower, and I will never not laugh at [CENSORED]

55. Country From Where the Sun Rises, Zipangu [Japan]: Very chill, very Japan, but just meh for me.

54. Moon Over Emei Shan [China]: Good message, okay song.

53. My Friend [England]: What a mind palace you must have Mr. Kirkland

52. With Love, from Iceland [Iceland]: Three words: Heavy. Metal. Puffin.

51. Having Friends is Nice...♫ [Russia]: Russia is the cutest thing ever

50. Mm. [Sweden]: Smooth transition from WWE Smackdown to shopping at IKEA.

49. Why don’t you come over? ~Beyond the Northern Lights~ [Iceland]: I don’t want to be mean but...this does sound like the second closing theme to an anime whose first closing was much more popular (à la Soul Eater)

48. Gakuen☆Festa [Germany, Italy, Japan]: Sounds like a 60s song of the summer but oh dear their voices do not go together. Hella cute though.

47. Wa! Wa!! World Ondo [Main Cast]: One time I travelled 10 hours in a coach bus with a bunch of teenagers to a city of note in my country, and the only souvenir I bought was the fucking PAINT IT WHITE DVD. Perfectly chaotic, UN ĐĕùX~~

46. In the Bluebell Woods [England]: In the album cover for this song he’s holding a guitar but this is not a rock song. Still has ‘running through the hills’ levels of dramatism though.

45. Poi Poi Poi♪ [Taiwan]: You’re telling me that Taiwan, someone whose has *ONE LINE* in Beautiful World (which is criminal tbh what kind of representation-) managed to get an eNTIRE CHARACTER SONG???????

44. White Flame [Russia]: There’s something to be said for a song that is 3x the length of any Hetalia episode

43. Ich liebe… [Germany]: Baking cakes for your friends has never been so wholesome.

42. We Wish you a Merry Christmas [America, China, England, France, Russia]: Nice to see they’ve gotten their shit together since United Nations Sta-hmm.

41. Ah, Worldwide à la mode [France]: Sounds like a Disney Princess song, hard not to picture France frolicking in a field of flowers.

40. Che Bello! ~My House is the Greatest!⭐~ [Italy]: Would not be out of place in an advertisement for Sea World.

39. May You Smile Today [Japan]: THE feel good song of the summer

38. Let’s Look Behind the Rainbow [Italy]: I will protect you.

37. I'm your HERO☆ [America]: “Anyone who’s sad or sullen will be arrested” did NOT age well.

36. Mein Gott! [Prussia]: Alternating headphone effect at the beginning is cool, so is the confidence...the actual singing on the other hand...

35. Nihao⭐China [China]: Listen, all of China’s character songs are great, I just can’t vibe with this one like some of the others.

34. Pechka ~Light My Heart~ [Russia]: I’m still having difficulty wrapping my head around the fact that this and Winter were released at the same time.

33. Pukapuka⭐Vacation [Germany, Italy, Japan]: Seems just a bit too much like they’re running on a treadmill that’s picking up speed and trying to sing at the same time. Peppy.

32. Santa Claus is Coming to Town [Germany, Italy, Japan]: This is unironically the best song sung by this trio; can only vibe with for two months out of the year though.

31. Excuse Me, I Am Sorry [Japan]: Japan’s character traits speedrun. Gives me barbershop quartet vibes for some reason but is catchy as hell.

30. The Story of Snow and Dreams [Russia]: A superhero anime opening in the making

29. England’s Evil Demon Summoning Song [England]: Sir that is not how you roast a marshmallow, don’t cut yourself on that edge.

28. Moi Moi Sauna♪ [Finland]: Exactly the type of song you’d expect and it’s wonderful

27. United Nations Star⭐ [America, China, England, France, Russia]: This isn’t as much of a song as it is a four minute struggle for everyone to sing without America yelling every 5 seconds...Like a particularly musical episode of Hetalia.

26. Paris is Indeed Splendid [France]: Paris-pa-pa-pa-paris

25. Absolutely Invincible British Gentleman [England]: Poppy, rocky, polka-dotty

24. Vorwärts Marsch! [Germany]: To quote the comment section: “This sounds like a German version of I’ll Make a Man out of you.” There’s some truth to that.

23. Hamburger Street [America]: The product of America’s rapper phase. 8/10 because he’s trying so hard and because I can unironically sing along to all of this.

22. Hoi Sam☆Nice Guy [Hong Kong]: A song that would absolutely destroy the ankles of anyone in DDR.

21. I Am German-Made [Germany]: There was once a version that had Germany and Prussia singing at the same time and it sounded positively demonic and Broadway could never

20. La pasión no se detiene ~Unstoppable Passion~ [Spain]: Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show-stopping...

19. Fall in Love, Mademoiselle [France]: Sounds like it should be in Mozart Opera Rock, I have kiss kiss falled in love.

18. Embrace the Très Bien Moi [France]: This is the definition of SELF LOVE PEOPLE.

17. Carrot and Stick [Belarus&Ukraine]: Absolutely DRIPPING in 2000s power ballad energy. The type of song that plays on repeat in the mind of the widow whose millionaire husband ‘mysteriously disappeared’ (and the only legit character song ever acknowledged by the anime)

16. C.B.C (Cowboyz Boot Camp) Vol. 1 [America]: AH MAH GAWWDDD

15. Winter [Russia]: Heavy metal fever dream and the perfect song for an angst-ridden teenager

14. Seychelles Here ⭐ Vacation Island [Seychelles]: UN👏DER👏RA👏TED SONG👏OF 👏THE 👏SUM👏MER👏

13. Nah, it will settle itself somehow [Romano]: One day I aspire to reach this level of chill

12. Let’s Enjoy Today [England]: I will never not feel happy when listening to this.

11. Einsamkeit [Germany]: Ludwig manages to air every single one of his worries about not being good enough compared to his friends and always being perceived as mean or uptight when he’s actually just a softie and now my heart hurts. 💔

10. Aiyaa Four Thousand Years [China]: A very poignant and beautiful song about the passage of time and the inevitability of its passing; comparable to an ancient ballad complete with explosive crescendos and meaningful lyrics.

9. Bon Bon Bon❤️C’est Bon C’est Bon! [France]: Peppy, cheerful, adorable, groundbreaking; has been my alarm tone for six years and I’ve yet to tire of it. 9/10 The moaning interspersed throughout has been an interesting wake-up call.

8. Let’s Enjoy! Let’s Get Excited! Cheers! [Denmark]: This is on par with Everytime we Touch by Cascada in terms of rage potential unlocked (the good kind)

7. Dream Journey [Japan]: Whoever’s playing the shakuhachi is absolutely KILLING IT. Dramatic, wonderful, great metaphors.

6. Gourmet’s Heart Beginner Level [China]: Absolute banger, I’m a vegetarian but this would inspire me to eat shumai.

5. Always with you...Nordic Five! [Nordic FIVVVVVEEEE]: Everyone harmonizes beautifully except for Denmark. Extremely catchy, number placement seemed appropriate.

4. Pub and GO! [England]: I love this trash man

3. Maji Kandou⭐Hong Kong Night [Hong Kong]: If you thought Denmark’s song was a banger JUST YOU WAIT. I WILL BLOW OUT MY SPEAKERS LISTENING TO LO-HA-SU.

2. Steady Rhythmus [Germany]: THIS SONG IS METAL AF. Seriously, if it can be classified as ‘hardcore’ by my father and his group of 50-somethings who have decided to single-handedly gatekeep the metal and hardrock genres, it can do anything.

1. The Delicious Tomato Song 🍅 [Romano]: Beautiful, absolutely awe-inspiring, poignant, catchy lyrics with an extremely deep meaning that only years of meticulous research and analysis can unlock, Romano I love you.

BONUS: Closing Songs

5. Hatafutte Parade (World Series)

4. Hetalian⭐Jet (The World Twinkle): The song is good, the dancing is cursed

3. Chikyuu Marugoto Hug Shitainda (World⭐Stars)

2. Marukaite Chikyuu (Hetalia: Axis Powers): nE NE PaPA

1. Mawaru Chikyuu Rondo (The Beautiful World)

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roryjackson-archived · 3 years ago

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Rory & Noah: the falling in love mixtape (lactose intolerants pls be safe, it’s cheesy)

"is your bedroom ceiling bored?" - Sody & Cavetown ⋆ "i stay up late and i talk to the moon, and i can't stop telling him all about you. wonder if you do the same thing i do. i get up early and talk to the sun, i ask her for guidance but she ain't got none. wonder if you do the same thing i do, i hope you do."

Oh boy oh boy. I associate this song with the period of time when Rory was realizing that she had feelings for Noah, but thought that he was still in love with Kitty. And Noah was... oblivious and self deprecating so he figured there was no way she liked him back. I love the visual of Rory alone in her room, agonizing over whether to tell him how she feels, little does she know that Noah’s doing the same thing.

"Vulnerable" - CJ Starnes ⋆ "you're dancing in ballrooms like, nothing can hurt you, right? you're smiling right through me, i feel vulnerable. you're breathing the ocean air, i'm running my fingers through your hair. i'd follow you anywhere, it's vulnerable." ⋆ "come over, i'm lonely, i want you to hold me. if it's just one more time, it'll be alright. but stick around if you'd like, we'll build a life if you like." ⋆ "just us on late night talks, just us on morning walks, just us. just us."

THIS. SONG. A lot of it just sounds like Rory to me, like the singer is describing this little weirdo floating around with her heart on her sleeve, vulnerable in every situation because she doesn’t know any other way to be. That’s exactly who Rory is, even if it gets her hurt. And she’s slowly pulling Noah in and making him feel vulnerable too as he starts to fall for her. a;ldsfkj;aslj And ofc, the idea of her wanting Noah too, wanting them to be an us. ugh. this song gives me many emotions don’t look at me.

"This Could Be" - Joel Ansett ⋆ "i see you lying next to me and i'm collecting memories so good, they'll never leave my brain. / this could be better than i ever dreamed."

In my head this one is Noah and Rory when they spent so much time holed up in his room at the beginning of their relationship. Sometimes working on the murder board, lying on the floor sorting through newspaper clippings, but also sneaking through windows to spend the night in each each others’ arms. They strike me as the kind of gross couple that would just look at each other with a kind of awe, like they’re trying to soak up every moment together. A future opening up before them, of what they could be to each other. Everything they might become.

"When the Right One Comes Along" - Clare Bowen & Sam Palladio ⋆ "there's no music, no confetti, crowds don't cheer, and bells don't ring. but you know it, i can guarantee, when the right one comes along." ⋆ "what they're thinking, what you're feeling, you no longer have to guess. all those questions, finally put to rest, when the right one comes along."

Even though Noah and Kitty weren’t technically together, she was his first love, and Rory’s high school boyfriend was her first love. They both had something before they found each other, but it absolutely blows Rory away how different this feels to her. Like it’s right in a way that her relationship with Tyler (cannot believe I finally had to name him smh) never was, even though it didn’t ever feel wrong at the time. And Ror is a moony eyed dreamer gal, so you kNOW that the first night they kissed she felt like all the pieces came together and something clicked that she’d never felt before. because she’s literally eighteen and gross. i hate her. <3

@thewriter-noah

#noah #cusatask #*mixtape

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mariahthelioness29 · 4 years ago

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You Can Stop...or Not

Paring: retired! Steve Rogers x Black! reader

WC: 3.2k

Warning: Absolute filth, mi gente, mention of alcohol, SMUT, unprotected sex ( wrap it before you let .... tap in ), medium rough sex, recording sex and photo taking. spanking, facial.

So the inspiration came around thanks to this post Thanks to @blackmissfrizzle @rasberrylemon for encouraging me and @saint-bvcky for being my enabler.

@avintagekiss24 @siancore @xbuchananbarnes @honeychicanawrites @sapphirescrolls @honestlyfrance @helahades @glittercake @lotusss-flowerbomb @buckybarnesplumwhore @canumoveurseatup-no @stacee-not-jaxx @extremelyblackandwhite @deansblackbeauty @afriendlyblackhottie @emilykjh @cherienymphe @readinginsilence100

You are at the edge of the pool, taking in the scenery. The pool blends with the vast ocean in front of you.

It is a beautiful scene, vast blue ocean with islands scattered here and there and the silhouette of mountains far away.

I’m still in love with you playing on the speakers. You sway to the rhythm.

“ I’m still in love with you booyyy”, you slurred. That wine is getting you now and you want your Stevie here with you but Stevie was not here yet, he was taking pictures of the local market for some fancy magazine about islands.

Who would’ve thought Steve Rogers as a photographer, art curator, art director ?

You smile reminiscing his first exposition, which was you and the clients of Jurnee’s beauty salon.

You and the journey of taking your braids off and giving care to your natural hair, with his Kodak Duex camera and with other cameras. Art circles and artsy people made a new meaning and something revolutionary out of it ,just as the shock of Viola Davis, taking her wig off in How to Get Away with Murder.

You laughed remembering, cause he did it out of absolute boredom when your friend, hairdresser Jurnee was taking care of your hair.

He was intrigued, you told him it will be a long time and process. Being the stubborn mule he is, he insisted on going with you. Only to be in shock how much time it takes and the procedure. His mouth was agape, when he heard Jurnee telling a woman, how much it was for her microbraids.

You never heard a group of Black women laugh that much at an expression. Steve Rogers, ex-Captain America, fought purple aliens, dropped from skyscrapers yet he is shocked at the price of microbraids.

You are a little tipsy so you step out of the pool, dry yourself and wrap your hair in the towel, like a headwrap. Dancing to your vacay playlist.

“Shake dat ting miss, Cana, Cana

Shake dat ting miss, Annabella

Shake dat ting yow, Donna Donna

Jodi and Rebecca

Woman, get busy

Jus shake dat booty non-stop”, blasted the speakers.

When you heard one of your favorite songs, You just had to get on your fours on the lounge chair and start throwing ass in a circle.

What you did not know is that a very sneaky, quiet Steve was there with his phone, recording.

Steve just sighs in content, seeing you relax, happy.

He takes his shirt off, just dropping on the floor.

He sees the bottle of wine that has gone down quite a bit. He chuckles in silent at that.

You are swaying your hips to the rhythm of those songs you love so much, oh but then you go on all fours and start moving your ass. He has an idea. He takes his phone and starts recording you. He does his best to be quiet, so that you don’t shy away.

After, coming back from the past, realizing that even going back in time cannot fulfill or make the what ifs come true. He came back but he still had a void. Sam and Bucky tagged him along to various social causes and projects to help the community and it satisfied him but still he needed the warmth of companionship.

One day he goes day drinking, just cause. He is retired and he can do whatever he wants.

You were the bartender and you clicked instantly . Your warm smile, the gold clips in your braids, your vibrant attitude. He felt something stirring in him.

He never exposed his layers to someone so deep and so fast. Maybe it was you and the Asgardian mead.

The rest is history. You have been inseparable since then.

“ Oh, what a sight for sore eyes, indeed ”, Steve sigh

You gasped, and stood up in a flash. When you turn around it was Steve

You let a breath out in relief.

“ Stevieeee”, you whine

“You have to stop scaring me like that” , you pout.

“Aww, I’m sorry, doll. Keep doing what you were doing, honey pie, you’re so beautiful”, Steve smiled again, while picking up the phone again. You roll your eyes, feeling your cheeks heat up but you do as told.

You get on all fours and start to throw your ass in a circle, you turn your head, seeing Steve in trance with how your ass jiggles. You turn around and bite your lip when you see that big tent in his pants forming.

Steve, on other hand, is totally forgetting how to breathe. You always leave him breathless with everything you do.

He loves this, that he only gets to see this part of you.

The way your white thong brings out your skin, the way you are moving sends shivers to all his body. You turn around and smile. He smiles back at you.

“ Come here, stop recording”, you faux chide him. Steve stopped the recording and put the phone in his pocket.

or… not”, You tell him, you wink at him.

He feels his breath hitch.

“ You sure, doll ?”, Steve breathes out, narrowing his eyes.

You love it, when he is so full of desire, the Brooklyn accent comes to the light.

“Let’s make a movie, daddy, not a silent one, full of color”. You smile biting your lip, you walk to him. You turn around and you beckon him with your finger.

He darts his way to you and grabs you, flush to him and kisses you.

It is passionate, fierce but slow and cadent. You feel all of him and he feels all of you.

You break up the kiss after a while. You are closed but you smile to his lips.

“ Your phone”, you point to his pocket. He takes it out and hands it to you.

You embrace him with his phone on your hand. You stretch your arm to the side , so you can record him kissing you and press record.

The glint in your eyes, let him know you are recording. You kiss all tongue, slowly, putting on a show for the camera. He nuzzles your cheek ,then he starts peppering your jaw with kisses. He dives in the crook of your neck and kisses , suckles and licks your pulse point.

You hiss and sigh with small whimpers concentrating that you don’t drop the phone.

“C’mon baby, you told me is not going to be a silent movie”, Steve reminds you.

With that he takes the phone away from your hands.

He makes you lay and spread your legs. He curls his finger and takes your thong off and throws it on the ground.

You talk a big game but when he makes you spread your legs, you still feel heated under his stare. He kisses your cheek.

You’re breathing is ragged.

He records how your center flutters around nothing, how you are glistened and glazed like an overflowing honey pot.

“Look at all that”, he says in awe.

“Fuck, all for me, baby”, he asks you looking at you

“ Yes, Stevie, all for you”, you nod, biting your lip.

He keeps recording how he slips a finger in you and withdraws it slowly and enters two fingers.

“Stevie”, you breath

“Hmm”, he just hums when you are moaning.

He withdraws the two fingers and pushes in three fingers.

“Daddy, please-, your moans die in your tongue. Steve is entranced seeing the recording and biting his lip.

Your eyes are rolled in that back of your head and your mouth agape. You are moving your hips up You whimper when he fingers you faster and faster.

He hiss with you.

He angles the phone to your face to record how your face contorted in pleasure.

You look so fucked out and he has barely begun. You whine when you feel his fingers slipping out of you.

“ Daddy”, you whine.

He licks his fingers, eyes closed, savoring you off his finger.

“So good” , he slurred

You just look at him, salivating.

“ I’m not done, doll, I am going to taste you”, he rasped

He hands you the phone. You change the camera so that it is recording him now. He blows a kiss to the camera and goes down.

You jolt and moan with the phone in hand. You grabbed the phone steady and he starts eating you like a starved man

“Yes, Stevie, make me cum like that”, you cry out and you push your center to his face.

His face flush against your center. His arms looped around your thighs. He looks at the camera, while giving fast tongue flicks on your clit.

“Ahh, fuck”, escapes you with high pitched sounds. You are squirming but he puts in your place. He enters his fingers in you again and you go cross eyed and almost drop the phone.

“ If you drop it, I won’t let you come all night, understood ”, he reprimands you.

You nod furiously.

He goes back to business, you are a moaning mess.

He sucks on your clit and slips his fingers in and out fast against that spot. Your thighs are shaking.

“Daddy, Stevie”- you shrill.

Everything is heightened, his lips on you and his beard tickling your inner thighs

You shriek, “Stevie!!” along with a deafening moan as you cum.

Steve eyes twinkle in the camera. It is the excitement he feels, because he makes you feel like this along with your taste. He flat his tongue, receiving everything you have to offer. He makes out with your pussy. You cry at the sensitivity. He smirks and then stands up.

He takes the phone from your hands, he saves the recording and then kisses you.

You both moan in the kiss, sharing the taste of you.

He breaks the kiss and grabs the upper cushion of the lounge chair.

He drops it on the floor.

You get the clue and you drop on your knees on the cushion. He presses record again.

“Take it out, honey”

You do it and it pops out of his shorts.

You love it. It is as pretty as him. Slightly curved, long and thick, head glistening with pre-cum.

You lick the throbbing vein on the underside, while looking him dead in the eye.

He exhales “ damn, doll”, with his eyes fluttering.

Little by little, you put his dick deeper in your mouth until you feel him tickling the back of your throat. He grunts “fuck”, when you cough, taking your head back. His dick is wet and glistening from your spit.

He is moaning, his hand a little bit shaky, holding the camera.

He guides your head up and down on his length.

“You like that honey pie, taking all of me?”, he croaks

You look up to the camera and your eyes smile while your mouth is full of dick.

He is a moaning mess, cursing and and his eyes close a little.

Your saliva coats your chin and the corner of your lips. You are teary eyed.

You jerk him and suck him. You gaped out of breath, you smiled at the camera, while jerking him off.

“ You like that, daddy ?”, you ask with faux innocence.

“You know, I do, honey pie”. He breathes out.

“Daddy, you are going to split me open with this” and you jerk him faster.

“ Yes, baby, I want to so much,” he croaks

You go for his balls and tug them and you flick your tongue on them.

He groans, “y/n, baby”.

You just keep doing it, while you keep seeing his mouth open, strangled moans coming out him.

“ Y-”, he can’t even form a coherent sentence. He just groans and bite his lip.

You are just bobbing your head up and down. Every now and then you lick the tip.

“Baby, if you keep doing that, I am going to cum, he rushes in a whisper

You stop and he stops recording, saving the recording.

He exhales a breath, and traces your lips with his thumb.

“You and that mouth”, he shakes his head grinning.

“ I love sucking you off, daddy”, you look up at him grinning too.

You suck his thumb and then stand up. He takes your hand in his, turns you around and spanks you hard.

You yelp, surprised by the slap on your ass cheek. It stings so good so you moan out.

He lands on his knees on the lounge chair. You sit in front of him. He brings you flush to him. He hands you the phone. You know what to do.

You start the camera, press record.

He is breathing you in. He starts kissing the back of your neck and nipping your earlobe.

His chest against your back. He snatches your biking top of you and starts jiggling your breast playfully. You both laugh at the camera. He kisses your cheek. You feel his beard tickling your cheek.

He caresses your perky nipples with his thumbs, putting a little pressure on them.

You sigh and your head falls on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering, you are still holding the phone. He says to your ear “ I love you”, honesty dropping in every word, while squeezing your breast. You put your hand on top of his and you say “I love you, too”.

“ Ass up, face down, doll”, he orders using his Captain voice.

Here I thought you loved me, hmm, you say with faux disappointment.

He laughs “ I love you so much, but let me show you how much with my body”. With that you stop the recording and save it.

You hand him the phone.

You are ass up and face down. He enters you while filming.

“Damn”, you groan. Your walls still need to adjust to him after all this time.

He breathes heavily.

Wine slow was playing on the speakers

“ I love it when you shake it, baby, you have the prettiest ass, show me how much you want my dick doll” , he grits out filming you and the scenery in front of you.

You shake your ass, almost pulling him out of you and then you slam your ass flush against his hips. You are moaning incoherent sentences, while you were moving your ass to the rhythm of the song.

“Stevie, daddy, I feel in you in- you moan- in my stomach”, you croak.

He records it all, he encourages you “ That’s it, honey pie, I’m all yours use me baby and he spanks your cheek. You whine. He takes your hip in one hand and starts thrusting his hips with madness in you.

You open your mouth in a scream but nothing other than strangled noises comes out.

He spanks your ass again. He moans when your walls spam around him.

“ Let me hear you, sweetheart”, he pants.

He grunts and groans, seeing on the phone, how much you are creaming for him.

You are whimpering, feeling him in your guts. You feel your inside getting tight, squeezing him

He groans “Fuck is like vice ” ,he grunts.

“Daddy, I’m close-, you cried out.

He pulls out, you groan in frustration: “whyyyy!”

“Calm down, baby, my hand is just tired, let’s go to the room, I put this phone on the nightstand and fuck you proper”, he explains to you.

You stand fast and he just laughs and you laugh.

“Eager little thing”, he bops your nose and you cast your eyes down, smiling.

He brings your face up with his thumb and forefinger on your chin and gives pecks to your lips.

You walk to your room hand in hand naked, the phone in his hand.

He puts the horizontally on the nightstand against the lamp and with the volume key, he hits the record.

You are laying on the bed and you receive him in your arms. You spread your legs real wide for him. You both kiss until you are out of breath.

“ I love you”, he pants.

“I love you”, you repeat to him.

He folds you more when his knees meet the back of your thighs. Your legs are beside your ears.

He starts pounding into you without mercy. The room is filled with his pants and grunts along with your cries. The sound of skin against skin. “ You’re so deep, daddy”, you cry out eyes wide like you could not believe he is this deep.

“ Take it, doll, that’s..- fuck, ahh- that’s where I belong-hmmm- deep in you”, he gruffs.

He pistons his hips against yours, non-stop.

You can only fist the sheets and moan to the ceiling.

He look so hot like that, eyes full of love and lust with his hair hanging on front of him

He feels you squeezing on him and he lets out a long moan. He knows he will not last. He starts rubbing your clit fast.

“ You gasp and you start whining, “ Stevie, baby, just like that”, you croak.

You arch off the bed with a long moan, you drop your body back on the bed, you feel electricity from head to toe.

Steve pulls outs and straddles your torso.

You start encouraging him.

“ I am so dirty, daddy, I even let you film me daddy, you coo at him

He is just jerking himself fast. His eyes are almost black from the lust.

“ Paint my face with your cum, daddy, I needed” , your smile at him.

“Fuck, y/n, baby, fuck you are such a sight,” he pants.

You stuck your tongue out to him. He was done for.

He cums with a strangled mention of your name, and a long moan and groans.

You close your eyes, smiling spurts of warm cum, landing all over your face and mouth.

Steve mounts off your torso. He sits next to you. You sit up against the headboard.

“ Such a good girl”, he says in awe. He gets off the bed and goes to his bag. He takes his polaroid in his hand.

“Say cheese, honey pie,”

You smile big for him with your face full of his cum. The picture slides out of the polaroid camera. He puts it on the nightstand. He coos “ So pretty”, looking at the picture. He sits next to you on the bed.

He scoops his cum in his fingers and lets you suck it off his finger. He does that until there is no trace of cum on your face. He kisses you deep.

“ You think we did good enough for a porn”, you ask him.

“ I know we did, pornstars, it is their job, and they do a damn good job but we are different, It is love”, he assures you.

With that he stands up and he picks his phone and stops the recording and saves it.

“ You know, doll, I like this recording thing”, he says while wiggling the phone in his hands.

“I already know where I want to do it, next”, he smirks and winks at you.

“Oh..”, you blink your eyes in surprise with a hand on your chest.

“How about tomorrow in the deserted beach on the other side of town”, he smiles.

“ Loving on an island 2”, You say seductively.

You both laugh. He goes to the bed and lays scooting to you.

He lays his head on your chest and you run your fingers through his hair. Both sighing in content.

“You know, we have our clothes outside”, you remind Steve

“ I’ll pick them up later”

This is his life right now, enjoying the world he was once denied along with you and his friends. There is only the present and he will enjoy it.

#steve x reader #steve x black!reader #chris evans #captain america #retired steve

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saxxxology · 5 years ago

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Daddy (oneshot)

In an effort to spice things up with Sam, you confess your need for him to occasionally take on a different role in your relationship.

PAIRING: Sam Winchester x Native American!Reader

WARNINGS: relationship anxiety, brief fluff, daddy!kink, oral sex (female), fingering, multiple orgasms, creampie

NOTE: Edited by @crispychrissy. Do not save or repost my work. 18+ only! This work has been a Patreon-exclusive since May 2019.

⭒ become a patron for just $3 ⭒

Things with Sam are good. Not great, not shabby… just good.

He’s been busy working hunts back to back, which you understand, and it’s fine when he’s too tired to have sex of any kind, but when you do have sex, it’s just been… good. You’re younger than he is, nineteen to his thirty-five. You like things rough and kinky, roleplaying, biting and scratching and marking. Sam always makes you cum, thank God, but the last few months you’ve barely gone beyond vanilla. It’s like he’s bored and just isn’t into it anymore.

And you don’t like it. It makes you nervous.

Finally, the boys get a weekend off. Dean promptly heads out for a day and night on the town, leaving you and Sam alone at the bunker.

You find him in the kitchen around noon, poring over the daily newspaper and a cup of coffee. He smiles when you perch on the edge of the table. Before he can say anything, however, you launch into your questioning.

“Am I good enough?”

He furrows his brow. “What?”

“In bed,” you murmur, “am I good enough for you?”

“Baby,” he bites his lower lip and reaches for your hand, “what’s going on?”

“Please just answer me.” You shift to face him and fold your hands in your lap. “I know the last few months have been rough, but… I don’t know, I feel like I’m not good enough.”

He purses his lips and chews on the inside of his cheek. “Okay, um…” he looks down briefly, eyebrows pinched before he returns his gaze to you. “I feel like there could be more,” he says, “I want more. I love being with you, don’t get me wrong, but we could be better together. I got it in me, but I’ve been afraid to ask you if you can take more than what I’m giving.”

Your heart lightens just a bit, but there’s still a bit of a twinge in your gut. If you’re really open with him about what you want and how you want it, it could change everything. “I want more, too,” you say, trying your best to appear confident.

“Great.” Sam smiles and folds his arms on the table. “Do you wanna tell me what it is?”

“It’s…” your voice trails off, and you dip your head, “it’s weird, what I’m into, can you promise that you won’t be mean about it?”

Sam nods slowly. “Promise.”

“I—” you swallow thickly, “I wanna call you… I wanna c-call you Daddy. When we’re in bed… y’know…”

A look of astonishment flits across Sam’s face. It’s only there for a second before his mouth stretches into a wide grin.

“What?” you feel your heart sink into your stomach. “If it’s bad you can just tell me, you don’t have to—”

“Baby.” Sam pulls one of your hands into both of his. “I don’t think it’s bad, I don’t think that at all.” He stands up and moves to stand in front of you. “Is there a reason why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why you wanna call me Daddy.”

You shrug. “Call it therapeutic?”

He nods and lowers his head to kiss your forehead. “Okay. How about we order some pizza, put a movie on?”

You tip your head back and trail your fingers over the buttons on his shirt. “Sounds good to me.”

He chuckles and kisses you, slowly and tenderly. “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“You know I love you, right?”

Your cheeks burn warm. “I love you, too.”

Three hours later, you and Sam are curled up in bed, watching the end credits to Age of Ultron. It’s the latest update to the MARVEL binge the two of you have been completing, and it feels good to have settled back into a semi-normal routine.

Sam clicks the TV off and sets the remote on the nightstand before turning to you. You’re half naked already, down to just a flimsy crop top and the pair of pink panties that Sam loves.

“Come here.” He pulls you into his lap, cupping your ass in both hands. You brace your palms on his chest and tip your head forward, allowing it to rest on his shoulder while he starts to touch you. His hands roam over your skin, creeping up underneath your top to pull it over your head. You let him push you up, and then his tongue drags warm and wet over your nipples.

“You have the cutest tits,” he praises, grazing his teeth over your areolas. “So soft and sweet… my pretty baby girl…”

You shiver as the words leave his lips and rock your hips down against the bulge in his jeans. He’s getting harder by the second, and when you feel him throb you let out a girlish whimper that makes him growl with arousal.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Rub your pussy on my cock, baby, get yourself all nice and wet for me.”

You lean back, hands splayed out on his stomach as you grind your pelvis down. Sam watches, groping your breasts with an expression of complete, animalistic awe. You keep going even when he’s so hard it has to hurt when you move.

“D-Daddy…”

Sam grunts when he hears the soft whisper leave your lips. “Yeah, baby girl?”

“Can I please cum like this?” You meet his gaze, your pace slowing.

Sam instantly understands the question; you want to have to ask permission to cum. “Yes,” he replies, the ‘s’ sound clipped as you give another swivel of your hips. “You can cum for me, baby, show me.”

He spreads his legs slightly, bare heels digging into the mattress as he holds your waist. Your thighs quiver, and you look down at him through half-closed eyes.

“Wanna cum,” you whine, “wanna cum so bad, Daddy…”

“C’mon…” Sam smooths his hands over your thighs. “You can cum for me, baby girl, it’s okay.”

Your orgasm is stronger than any you’ve had in weeks. Your pussy clenches tight around nothing as you rub your clit against the denim of his jeans. It builds hot and wet in your belly until it explodes in a shower of heat and indescribable pleasure.

“That’s it,” Sam watches you fall apart, head tipped forward as you desperately hump his bulge. He whispers to you until you’re shaking, spent, and slump forward onto his chest. He takes advantage of your temporary inability to move and rolls, coming to rest on top of you in the center of the bed.

“That was beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss against your parted lips. “You ruined your cute little panties.”

You don’t stop him as he kisses down your body, not stopping until his head is level with your hips. He traces a finger over the soaked fabric, chuckling to himself as he pulls it aside to expose your bare pussy. “Oh, baby girl, you’re so wet…”

He kisses your smooth mound before lapping through your folds, performing your favorite swirl of his tongue over your clit. You whimper loudly and roll your hips, still sensitive from your orgasm not a minute before, but Sam doesn’t let you go. He holds your thighs open, fingers digging into your smooth skin as his tongue and lips torture wet, tender flesh.

You cry out when he slides a finger inside you and holds it there, knuckle deep. Both of your hands move to hold his hair, and he groans when your nails scrape over his scalp. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed as he focuses every ounce of his being on pleasuring you.

“Yes…” you choke on your speech as Sam runs his tongue against your clit, over and over and over again. Your legs are still shaking, and you throw your head back against the covers in frustration as Sam sends waves of pleasure coursing through you without actually making you cum. “Daddy… oh, please, lemme cum…”

Sam kisses your clit before looking up at you. His lips are shiny with slick. “You wanna cum?”

“Yes,” you nod frantically, “I need to cum really bad.”

He nuzzles the inside of your thigh. “You can cum, honey, I’m not stopping you.”

It only takes a few more licks of your clit and a crook of his finger to send you into another orgasm. This one isn’t as intense, almost right off the back of your first one, but your eyes still roll back in your head as it burns through you before sputtering out. Satisfied that you’ve cum for the second time, Sam wipes his finger on the covers and leans back to pull his shirt over his head. His belt opens next, and he unzips his jeans, pushing them down far enough so he can free his cock. The cold metal buckle taps against your thigh, and you wince playfully as he leans over you.

“Do you want me inside you?” he asks, letting his cock rub against your wet folds. “Want Daddy to stretch your tight little pussy out?”

“Yes.” You grip his shoulders, biting your lower lip. “I want your big cock in my pussy.”

“What do you say?” he asks, teasing your entrance with the swollen crown of his dick. “Magic words, baby girl.”

You swallow, trembling at the dominance Sam’s asserting over you. “Yes, please, Daddy.”

He rolls his hips sharply, his thick cock sliding into your pussy with ease. You’re used to taking him by now, but you still wince as he bottoms out. His balls press against your ass, and you revel in the sensation of him almost impossibly deep.

“Good girl,” he says, his voice a soft husk against your ear. “Want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” you stutter, “p-please…”

Sam holds himself over you as he pulls back, waiting until just the tip of him is sunk into your cunt before pushing forward again. You close your eyes, biting down on a knuckle while he settles into a steady, passionate rhythm.

“Lemme hear you,” he says, “lemme hear how good it feels, baby.”

He curls over you, caging your body in with his. The sudden heat and weight of him coaxes a high-pitched gasp and several “ah, ah, ah” moans from your throat. He focuses on that, keeping quiet save for the odd grunt or moan as he continues to fuck you.

You don’t work right for the orgasm this time, just settle back into your role and let Sam provide the control you’re desperate for. He keeps it steady, fucking with long drags and rolls that make your head spin. You forget how long it takes, maybe five, six minutes, before he’s pausing, leaning back to watch his cock slide in and out of your wet, sticky pussy.

“Gimmie your leg,” he instructs breathlessly. Once you’ve lifted one leg up, he maneuvers you onto your side and rests your ankle on his shoulder. The angle changes, and Sam growls loudly when your cries and gasps grow louder. “That’s it,” he encourages, “rub your little clit for me, baby girl, make yourself cum all over Daddy’s cock.”

He quickens his pace, the loud slap of his hips against your ass filling the room. You slip a hand down between your legs and rub your middle and index fingers over your clit. Sam grunts loudly as your pussy squeezes his cock tight.

“It feels so good,” you whisper, “Daddy, your big cock feels so good inside me…”

Sam leans over, keeping your leg on his shoulder as he kisses you. “I can tell, baby, you’re getting all messy.”

You moan against his mouth as his thrusts grow even more vigorous. He’s desperate now, bucking his hips urgently into the cradle of your body. When he gets like this you know he’s not gonna last much longer.

“Cum with me, Daddy,” you sigh, “fill my pussy up.”

Sam grits his teeth, moving your leg to his other shoulder so that you’re spread up and open for him. “Oh, baby girl,” he grunts, “I’m gonna cum so hard…”

You arch your back, moaning freely against his mouth. “I’m gonna cum, Daddy, please—” your words choke off as he replaces your hand with his, rubbing hard and fast with his thumb. His hips are beginning to stutter, and you let out a loud cry of pleasure as your third orgasm rips through you. Your vision goes foggy, and you barely discern Sam climbing to his peak with several sharp, borderline-painful thrusts that only make you gush over his dick.

“Cum inside me,” you sob, “c’mon, Daddy, cum…”

Sam shoves forward with a loud yell, muffling the sound with a wet, sloppy kiss. He’s cumming so hard you can feel it, every individual throb of his cock as he spurts warm and thick. It’s over fast, but he shudders through the aftershocks as he pulls out, already starting to go soft. His cum flows out in a thick white line down a cheek of your ass, and he hastily grabs his shirt, tucking it underneath your hips before it can stain the sheets.

“That was…” he slumps over beside you, pulling you close. “You okay?”

“I’m good.” You sniff and bury your face in his chest. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Sam feels his blood burn hot as the word settles in his mind. “You’re welcome, baby girl.”

Read this work’s sequel on Patreon for just $3

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester reader insert #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x you

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hatchetfieldtheories · 4 years ago

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Return to Hatchetfield-Town – The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals Part 1

Alright settle down kiddos. Get comfy, find a warm blanket and hug your favourite fwendy-wend as we start our Return to Hatchetfield-Town series.

I’ll be rewatching all the Hatchetfield scripted content (i.e. not livestreams or interviews) and jotting down what happens, explaining some concepts and delving into some of the key theories in the series (and using the word “implications” that often it will cease to have meaning).

Even though I’ll be doing the rewatch by show in order they came out, there will be spoilers for all Hatchetfield content that is available as of the rewatch.

I’ve also linked to a number of other blog’s theories here because they are amazing, but if you aren’t happy with your theory being included I will be more than happy to remove it! Just let me know.

[Part 2]

The Guy Who Really Hated Brigadoon

TGWDLM starts off with the greatest song ever to feature dancing zombies… at least I can’t think of any other notable ones.

In the title song, the cast of singing and dancing zombies explain to us that all great stories have to have a hero, someone who knows right and wrong and that the best way to do this is through singing and dancing in musicals. This with the later line of “they evoke the philosophical” make me think that Pokey took a class in Campbell’s Hero Myth in College and became that guy.

Hatchetfield Challenge: try not to shrug your shoulders along with the music at the chorus. Its impossible. No wonder the Hive spread so quickly. Literally killer dance moves.

So then they introduce us to an awful Grinch named Paul and we hit the first point in the show where I laugh out loud every single time I watch.

I know TGWDLM was not originally intended to be the first Hatchetfield show but starting this series with a song which sets up the story so well is truly spectacular. And is there anything more Starkid than introducing your main character by having other characters sing about how awful they are?

One thing I have noticed while writing, reading and collating Hatchetfield theories is that while most Black Friday and Nightmare Time theories are usually about the overall Hatchetfield lore, most TGWDLM theories are usually quite self-contained and focused on this one show. TGWDLM – while so fully within the Hatchetfield extended universe, is definitely the show that can best stand-alone without the others.

It’s the end of the world, Paul

If you don’t sing

This is the bridge, Paul

Where we globalize everything

And the words will come to you

We swear we will teach you

What it means to love

What it means to obey, Paul!

On a first watch this is very funny. On your 10th watch this is terrifying.

CCRP Technical: No-one here knows how to use their printer

Following the absolute bop of a title song we find ourselves in CCRP Technical and all feels very… normal. It’s very weird following all the revelations in subsequent Hatchetfield media, to be watching a show where there was genuinely nothing obviously fishy about CCRP. We’ll obviously discuss CCRP more when we get to Nightmare Time, but for now all we know is that Paul works in the technical department of CCRP – an unknown corporation, with some key characters, Charlotte, Bill and Ted.

We also find out more about Grinch Paul’s personality and honestly, Paul is me pre-pandemic just outright avoiding social interactions and suddenly going for coffee in the middle of the work day. (I have become a changed woman in lockdown – someone please invite me somewhere… anywhere!)

For all the dark humour and death in the Hatchetfield series, Starkid do know how to bring the joy – I love how excited the town of Hatchetfield are for a touring production of Mamma Mia.

Fake Fact: TGWDLM is actually an allegory for Europe in the 1970s, when we all became mind-controlled by Abba’s Waterloo. (Find me a better explanation for Eurovision, I dare you! The sequins were just too shiny!)

“The idea of sitting there… trapped in a musical. That is my own personal hell.”

Two words: Emma Perkins – need I explain any more?

Ah Hot Chocolate Boy. I really look forward to finding out more about him. Where does he come from? He just appears out of the ether. What’s his story? How old is he? How many hot chocolates does he have per day? I know we have since had some confirmation on who he is, but they raise more questions than answers. For now I will just point you to a gorgeous Mood Board by @hatchetfieldmoodboards which features a bit of a spoiler.

For real though – is it just me who would love a full version of “I’ve been brewing up your coffee”?

Hatchetfield Challenge: Try not to sing “Shut the f*ck up” along with Emma.

“Watching people sing and dance makes me very uncomfortable”- oh boy Paul… you’re not going to enjoy the next hour and 40 minutes. Also, Paul, you’re making me uncomfortable watching you throw your brand new coffee around as if you’ve just been given an empty cup. There’s imaginary coffee everywhere. Hopefully, HCB won’t slip on it before it’s cleaned up… he’s already having a bad day.

“Thunder and Lightning… very very frightening. But a big rock hurtling through the clouds is no biggie.” – all the residents of Hatchetfield apparently.

The next sequence happens so fast and we get introduced to a lot of characters. Notably Greenpeace Girl, Alice and Deb, Sam, and Hidgens (though we don’t find out his name until much later). This scene impresses me because they do such a great job of very quickly bringing out so many characters who nonetheless are memorable when they return later in the show.

Peanuts the Hatchetfield Pocket Squirrel is an Eldritch Being. I won’t go into Peanuts theories here as that could be a whole post in itself – and many a person more brilliant than I have written some fantastic theories on this. You can learn all about how a Squirrel took over the fandom in the following posts:

@dahlialupine : x

@frombothofmyhearts: x

@abiimaryy: x

And finally mine which is definitely a serious theory: x

It’s… A… Musical!

Now to remember we are actually watching a musical. La Dee Da Da Day is such a happy joyful song performed spectacularly by a throng of the undead.

The song is about the Hive singing about how much of a great time they are having now they are tap-dancing zombies, and trying to find ways to convince Paul he should join them too. So the grins on all their faces are not at all terrifying.

It’s worth noting also that according to the laws of the TGWDLM world, only those infected by the Hive can hear the music in the background. This becomes important later when it becomes clear some characters have started being infected before they are fully turned into zombies, but for now it just paints quite a funny picture of what Paul must be witnessing. I definitely think for him, this whole scene just sounds like this clip of Greased Lightning without the music: x

The important thing here however, besides Mariah’s singing, is that the Hive leave Paul alone. They don’t actually attempt to turn him at this point. I have a theory on the implications of this, but note this has big spoilers for the end of the show and Black Friday. It was written before we knew that the Hive (Pokey) was related to Wiggly but the content still stands: x

Charlotte, Honey, you don’t need that much sugar – you’re sweet enough

For reference:

@melchron noted that the lyrics for La Dee Dah sound very similar to the incantation for soul transferal read out in Jane’s a Car, which leads me to two possible implications.

The Freaky Furbies have a language other than English that they use for their incantations so this is why they sound similar.

There is soul transference happening to the souls of the bodies the Hive take over.

Or it’s just Starkid using similar sounding words for their content…. Three! There are three possible implications…

Paul – just print off another copy of the report

From this point on the musical numbers really do come thick and fast. We move on to the first instance of Jeff Blim encouraging Paul to talk about his feelings, which I am sure is not important and isn’t worth discussing. Paul goes through a musical rendition of a promotion interview, which is actually the Hive attempting to find out if he will be the “hero” of their story. They picked out Paul for the role from the start. That he was chosen was inevitable.

What do you see for this company? I'm looking for someone with strong ambition Someone to sell their specific vision Someone to share with precise precision their thoughts 'Cause I want you to want…To want

So it turns out these will be looooong, so I will end here and see you in part 2! I’m not sure yet what the upload frequency will be. It takes quite a while to go through the show like this but it is a lot of fun!

Hatchetfield High Homework:

Where do you stand on the Peanuts the Hatchetfield Pocket Squirrel debate?

Why do you think that the Soul Transference Spell and La Dee Dah sound so similar?

Go follow all the lovely people mentioned in this post!

Bonus points if you know the reference in the post title.

[Part 2]

#the guy who didn't like musicals #tgwdlm #return to hatchetfield town #starkid #team starkid

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imaginedhaven · 4 years ago

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Reluctantly Rooming: Part Seven

Link to Masterpost

Guys, I loved this prompt! Please feel free to keep sending them my way!

Today’s prompt:

"Shut up, you don't know what it's like to have your body attack you every month" for Aelin on her period please?????

~*~*~

Two weeks after she had broken her ankle, and on the very first day she was supposed to go back into work, Aelin woke up with the distinctly unpleasant sensation of her lower back muscles attempting to crush her spine. With a vicious curse, she hauled herself up out of her makeshift bed and made for the kitchen. Her phone chimed from the desk Rowan had been using as an office before the incident, and she snagged it off of the charger, quickly sending a text off to Sam.

Cancel the ride. I can’t do it today after all.

She didn’t bother to await a reply before making her way to the cabinets where she usually stored all of her treats. Her brownies had run out a week ago, but surely she still had something stashed away.

As she rummaged, she took a moment to count backwards in her head. Surely she hadn’t miscounted? This was far too soon for her usual monthly cycle, or so she had thought. After all, her last one had been just two weeks…

Two weeks before she had broken her ankle. Fuck. It was right on schedule and she was the fool who hadn’t counted right. And since she hadn’t counted right, she had done exactly none of her usual self-care routine for the day before that mitigated the symptoms of this first awful day. Gods, she felt like such an idiot.

Gently, she let her head fall forward and into the cabinet door with a soft thunk. It served her right for forgetting such an important thing and messing up her very first day back at work. The best she could do now was try her best to catch up to it with painkillers and hope she would be better enough to try again tomorrow.

Her phone chimed on the counter with Sam’s reply.

I was wondering if you were sure. It’s awfully soon, aren’t you still on those heavy duty pain pills?

Of course she wasn’t. They had run out four days ago, and she hadn’t given it a second thought before now since her ankle had been feeling so much better.

No, I’m just an idiot who can’t count days and weeks. A vague message, to be sure, but Aelin knew that Sam would know exactly what she was talking about. She had complained to him enough about it over the years, after all.

Damn, that sucks. I can stop by after my shift if you need anything?

It was sweet of Sam, really, and a holdover from how they’d helped each other out while they were dating, but she knew it would be too little too late and she didn’t want to interfere with his own schedule. I should be fine, really. Just gonna curl up and try to sleep it off. I should be better tomorrow, you know it’s always just this first day.

That’s true enough. Feel better xo

Aelin smiled and set her phone aside, then winced as her more immediate problem made itself known once more. She finally opened the cabinet…

And was met with plates. Gods, she didn’t know Aedion had even owned this many plates. Not only that, but this meant that Rowan had reorganized the kitchen again and most likely thrown out her snacks. He’d probably even sniffed with disdain as he’d done so, the joyless buzzard.

Aelin whined quietly. Fuck, she just wanted one thing to not be completely screwed up today. Apparently that was too much to ask, though.

Her supplies were kept in the upstairs bathroom next to her usual bedroom, and since she had stocked up the previous month she knew that at least those wouldn’t be an issue. She just had to get up the stairs. It was slower going than usual, as she still had to wear the boot, but now that she could actually walk as long as she had the boot on she managed okay. Several minutes of cleaning up later and she was ready to awkwardly clomp her way back down the stairs, taking some of her stash with her so she wouldn’t have to make this trek again in the next day or two at least.

She paused in front of the television, going through her collection of movies and selecting an older musical Rowan was certain to judge her for before gathering up every blanket they’d left around the living room and forming a cocoon on the couch.

She’d just gotten some semblance of comfortable when the door opened, footsteps heading for the stairs and then pausing. “I thought you said you were going to try working today,” Rowan said, clearly confused. “Unless… is your ankle bothering you?”

“What? No.” Gods, she’d lost track of the time, and she hadn’t expected to deal with Rowan this soon.

“Did your ride fall through? If you’d called I could’ve—”

Her grip on her temper, already tenuous due to the situation at hand, frayed and broke. “Shut up,” she snapped, and a part of her reveled in Rowan’s stunned silence. “You don’t know what it’s like to have your body attack you every month.” She avoided Rowan’s eyes, not sure what she’d find in his expression and even less certain she wanted to know.

She curled up a little bit tighter, though, when his footsteps quietly retreated through the front door once more.

Gods, not only had she messed up her own day, but she’d probably ruined Rowan’s too. He hadn’t asked for her to snap at him, and in hindsight he hadn’t deserved it either. He’d been the perfect picture of a caring roommate, and she’d stomped all over that. It sucked, and not just because she’d actually been trying to befriend him.

No, it was awful because it wasn’t until the door had quietly closed behind him that she realized the last thing she’d wanted was to be left alone.

She’d brought it on herself, though, so she didn’t reach for her phone again. There was no point in dragging anyone else into the utter mess that was her day, and the last thing she wanted was to send a pleading text to Rowan and have him ignore it. Instead, she burrowed deeper into her pile of blankets and tried to ignore the tears she could feel welling in her eyes.

She had mostly succeeded in banishing them and was drifting somewhere between waking and sleep when the door opened once more. She said nothing, hardly daring to hope he’d actually come back. No, most likely he’d forgotten something he needed and he’d be gone again in a few minutes.

Her self-loathing tirade stuttered to a halt when something warm was tucked behind the small of her back.

Stunned, she reached behind herself and found an electric heating pad, the kind she’d always thought about buying but never managed to remember until it was too late. When she turned her head to look at him he wasn’t looking at her, instead setting a cup of something on the table in front of her. It turned out to be a mocha from the café down the street upon further investigation, and suddenly those tears she had mostly managed to shove back down were welling up to the surface once again. “Rowan…?” Gods, her voice broke on his name, but she couldn’t even bring herself to be embarrassed about it.

“You should drink some of that,” he said quietly. “The caffeine will help, and I know how you feel about chocolate.”

Gods, who was this man and what had he done with her roommate? She was having a hard time believing he could be so… soft. She supposed it made sense, though; surely it was just an extension of all he’d done for her in that first week after breaking her ankle. She knew better than to call attention to it by asking; if she knew Rowan, that would just cause him to grumble something at her and retreat into his room for the remainder of the night, and that was the last thing she wanted. Instead, she quietly reached for the cup and sighed as she inhaled the scent of it.

He wasn’t done yet, though; no, he was reaching into one of those reusable grocery bags she’d never seen anyone else using. “I didn’t know if you preferred sweet or salty snacks,” he admitted as he pulled out a couple bars of chocolate and a bag of pretzel sticks.

“Gods, those pretzel sticks sound perfect right now,” she replied. “I… you didn’t have to do all this. How’d you even know what to do? Most men I’ve talked to panic at the very thought of it.”

The question earned her a tiny hint of a smile. “Contrary to popular belief, I have lived with a woman before,” he said.

Aelin immediately fought down a surprisingly strong surge of jealousy at this unnamed other woman who’d had this amount of care from Rowan and presumably lost it somehow. “What happened? I can’t imagine she’d just let you go, if you did this for her.”

“She didn’t.” The words were clipped and short, and Rowan’s expression had shut down completely.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” The words rushed out of her, and she ached to reach out to him, to do something to smooth that look away from his face. “Whatever it was, you don’t have to talk about it to your idiot of a roommate who can’t leave well enough alone.”

He finally looked at her, then, and there was a deep sorrow lingering in that green gaze but the smile he gave her was genuine enough. “Maybe I will, someday. But not today.”

“Please tell me I haven’t scared you off. I really, really don’t want to be alone right now.” She could feel her face heating, but not even her own embarrassment was enough to contain the words. Not when he’d already done so much to help and she was finally beginning to relax.

He pulled a small container of medicine out of the bag and set it beside her drink. “Take this while I put the rest of these away, and I’ll be right back,” he offered.

She nodded, and as she reached for the pills he moved into the kitchen. She had just settled back against the heating pad once more when he returned, true to his word. He didn’t take his usual position in the armchair, though, much to her surprise. Instead, he sat beside her on the couch and didn’t even protest when she snuggled herself up under one of his arms.

As she drifted off, comforted by the warmth and the blankets and his loose embrace, she could’ve sworn she heard him humming along to the musical that still played.

~*~*~

Tagging:

@ireallyshouldsleeprn @queen-of-glass @fangirlprincess09 @sassys-world @morganofthewildfire @superspiritfestival @perseusannabeth @sis-it-dont-add-up @jlinez @julemmaes @emilyoftheshadows @thegoddessofyou @mymultiversee

#haven writes #reluctantly rooming #rowaelin

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pallasperilous · 4 years ago

Text

Funny Bone

The other day Supernatural9917 threw out this meme as a cracky Halloween Dean/Cas prompt and I was SO MAD, because I then had to write it:

And so here it is. Goddammit.

Funny Bone

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761150 Words: 4930 Castiel/Dean Winchester Fluff and Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Skeletons, Bad Pick-Up Lines, No Angels AU, Men of Letters Bunker, Mild Gore Mature (mentions of lewd acts, canon-typical violence, and some truly horrible pickup lines)

It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland. It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.

Discovering the bunker in the first place was a helluva surprise. The whole facility is legitimately batshit; Dead Guys of Letters knew how to live (and, apparently, die. All at once.).

But after plowing through a dozen rooms worth of priceless treasures and crusty boobytraps, even Sam was looking kinda full up on shock and awe.

“We can hit the basement tomorrow,” he said. There was a big smudge of dust across his nose and some cobwebs in his hair.

“Nuh uh,” Dean answered, kicking the door shut with the toe of his boot. “If there’s shit still kicking down there, we gotta clean it out before it cleans us out. It’s that or we’re sleepin’ in the car.”

“Ugh,” Sam said, as if twenty minutes ago he hadn’t been losing his mind over a rare book about werewolf hemorrhoids.

So discovering that the basement included a no-shit actual dungeon felt more like an unanticipated bonus, and stumbling across a skeleton while exploring it barely even registered. Skeletons and dungeons! They go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong.

It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor, inside a big circle of greasy black ash. It looked a little mildewy in in places. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland.

It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.

“Welp,” Dean had said, holstering his gun and wiping his hands on his jeans. “We’re all clear. Let’s head back upstairs, salt the shit out of everything, and then we can pick up some groceries.”

“Do I get to buy a vegetable that doesn’t fit in a bun, or are we still in the refractory period?” Sam snarked from the corridor.

“I don’t see you cookin’, “ Dean started, shuffling back towards the hall, and that’s when the skeleton butted in.

“Are those astronaut pants?” it asked. “Because your ass is outta this world!”

Dean absolutely did not scream, but it’s possible there was a yelp.

He almost unloaded a clip into it – unclear what that would’ve possibly done, but it’s good to start with the simple, available solutions. Next he nabbed the lighter fluid off of Sam and dumped out half a pound of kosher salt as a chaser and set the fucker alight.

This does not have the intended effect.

“Baby, I’d like to put my meat on your grill,” the skeleton says, greenish flames dancing between its ribs, “because you’re hot, and I’m smokin’.” Then it sits up a little, just enough to shoot Dean some finger guns.

“What the fuck,” Dean says.

Sam makes a little evaluatory noise. “Sexually harassed by a skeleton,” he chuckles. “I think that’s a new one. Even for you. Is that a new one? I know a lot of strange shit went down in Purgatory.”

The skeleton perks up even more at that, grungy eye sockets sweeping up and down Dean’s body. “Are you a time traveler?” it asks. (Maybe he asks, because the voice is pretty deep and dude-ish, although possibly just on account of its vocal cords being leather shoelaces.)

“Wh…no, I’m not a time traveler,” Dean fibs. He’s more of a time trafficking victim, anyway. “Oh, wait, god,” he says. “Please don’t tell me you’re asking that because –“

“– I can see you in my future,” the skeleton finishes, eagerly, and Dean really wishes this thing had eyebrows so he could tell if they’re waggling.

“Yeah, okay. That’s enough for today,” Dean groans. “I need a drink.” He starts to back out of the room as a pre-emptive strike against Bones commenting on how he hates to see Dean leave, but loves to watch him go. Dean’s working on stumbling back again Sam’s left shoe when the skeleton pipes up one last time, this time with a husky, anxious edge.

“I realize that Purgatory isn’t accessible through a simple chronological shift,” it says, teeth chattering. “But it does require travel between modalities, and if you’re capable of that, I would very much like to speak with you again.”

Dean and Sam’s heads slowly swivel back towards the skeleton, like two little pizzas on the same Lazy Susan.

An hour later, they’re still in the dungeon, working on dousing the skeleton with every possible anti-bad-stuff solution they’ve got, just in case he’s a vampire skeleton or a ghoul skeleton or a witch skeleton or maybe just a wendigo that’s incredibly bad at its job. In between progress reports, he’s still hitting on Dean.

“Dude, don’t you have an off switch somewhere?” Dean asks him.

“Well, Dean, you certainly make me feel like a light switch,–“

“– because you turn me on,” all three of them say in unison.

The skeleton looks a little embarrassed, which is kind of impressive when you think about it. “You’ve…heard that one before?” he asks.

“I spend a lot of time in bars,” Dean deadpans. “Okay, sage is a no-go.”

Sam strikes a line off on the clipboard he found upstairs. “Is this part of a curse or something?” he asks, glancing up at Bones. “Like on top of being a sentient skeleton, you can only speak in horrible pickup lines?”

The skeleton shakes his head, which produces a sound Dean recognizes from his kneecaps on cold mornings. “No, the spellwork allows me to speak freely on most subjects; except who I am, or how to free me. But it’s helpful to use language modern humans can easily understand.”

“Huh. Well, in a way, it is Dean’s native tongue,” Sam says, smirking.

“You shut your face,” Dean hisses.

“When I first saw you, I lost my tongue. Can I try yours on for size?” Bones asks Dean.

“Buddy, I don’t know where you get your information from, but nobody actually talks that way,” Dean tells him. “Nobody sober, anyway. Who isn’t a virgin.”

The skeleton slumps. “I learned from my last visitor. He tried to release me on several occasions, but he either died or abandoned the project.”

Dean arches a brow. “The project being…you?”

“I would be very valuable under the right circumstances.” The skeleton shrugs and casually holds out an arm for Dean to scrape at with the demon blade. “He gave me lessons in modern vernacular as a way to pass our time together.”

“Sounds like a peach,” Dean says, before he can catch himself. “If you have a peach-related pickup line in there, man, you’d better just sit on it.”

“That’s what-“

“I will smash you with a hammer,” Dean barks.

The skeleton relents, but with obvious reluctance.

They call it quits before Kansas rolls up the sidewalk for the night and leaves them stranded with nothing but two Clif bars and a gross of septuagenarian cans of franks ’n beans. Bones shifts nervously when Dean leaves – “Which is better, pancakes or waffles?” he asks.

“Pancakes,” Dean says, with a sense of grim duty.

“Because I’d like to know what you’re making me for breakfast,” says Bones, his voice trailing off as Dean books it down the stony corridor.

By lunch the next day (bologna sandwiches, so sue him, he’ll make something good later) they’re pretty sure that Bones doesn’t pose any known, immediate threat – other than to Dean’s sanity – so they switch gears to springing him. Maybe he will be worth something, or maybe he’ll crumble into dust and Be Free, or maybe he’ll just stop being chained to the basement wall, in which case he can become their skeleton butler or something.

There are weird runes on the ankle cuff, so Sam snaps some quick photos and heads upstairs to feel up the library. This leaves Dean in the basement with Bones, some good old-fashioned power tools, and Bones’s ex-suitor’s gross sense of humor.

“You know I can understand you just fine when you’re talking normally,” Dean says. “You’re just reciting some prehistoric shit that idiots say to girls to get a pity-laugh, hoping it leads to a pity-fuck.”

“What’s a pity-fuck?” Bones asks, all mildewy innocence. Dean’s pretty sure the grunge in his eyeball sockets is dried eyeball.

“Pretty much what it says on the tin, my guy,” Dean answers, and reaches for the acetylene torch.

“Enochian,” Sam says, when Dean surfaces for another sandwich and possibly a beer. He’s really disappointed about the torch.

“Gesundheit?” Dean replies, around a mouthful of bologna. Like everything else here, the kitchen is pretty schwa, although the inside of the fridge required three exorcisms and half a jug of bleach.

Sam paws around the smelly old book in a way that makes Dean feel sorry for the girls Sam dated in high school. “The symbols on the cuff. I think they’re Enochian. It’s a fake celestial language made up by some sixteenth century con artists.”

Dean coughs up a bit of Wonder Bread. “I respect the hustle, but what’s it doing on an ankle cuff in a dungeon younger than Mickey Mouse?”

Sam frowns. “Well, it could be for show. But just because some nutbars made it up doesn’t mean it’s totally powerless. Maybe it does have some kind of…heavenly mojo.”

“Liwl probbem,” Dean observes, finishing off his sandwich. “Def nuh heggen.”

“Huh?”

Dean takes a swallow of beer. “I said: there’s no heaven.”

Sam shrugs. “We didn’t think there was a Purgatory, either.”

“Okay, but if we find out angels are real,” Dean snorts, “then Bones can fuck me in the ass.”

Sam reports his findings to Bones, who sits placidly on the back of his pelvis, carpals splayed out on his kneecaps. What’s even holding him together? Dean can see what’s left of his ligaments, but they look like petrified gas station jerky.

“Do you know what they mean?” Sam asks him, pointing at the sigils.

Bones’s jaw creaks open a little, then closes again, and then he shakes his skull (something rattles inside.) Finally he makes a little frustrated noise and replies – “Baby, are you a book? Because I’d like to check you out.”

“Hey!” says Dean. “Keep it in your pants, man, I’m right here.”

Sam squints. “I think…Dean, I think he’s trying to tell us something, but the spell on him means he can’t say it directly.”

Bones clenches his fists, releases them, clenches them again.

“Yeah. Keep him talking. Let’s see how close he can get.”

Clack clack clack.

“Uh,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Do I need to, like. Give you some kinda opening?” he asks Bones.

“Sweetheart, I’d like nothing better,” Bones answers, then clacks his knuckles on his brow with exasperation.

“Sorry, Christ. Hit me with your best shot, buddy. Dealer’s choice.”

Bones clears his…ghost throat? and tries: “Tell me, Dean…did it hurt?”

Dean blinks. “When I…fell from heaven?”

Sam claps his hands. “Fucking knew it. It is Enochian, and it does have something to do with this. I think he wants me to check the library for another book. Maybe there’s one misshelved or something that I can actually use to translate. Or I can Google around, maybe there’s a subreddit.”

Dean’s pretty sure Bones has never heard of a Google or a subreddit (for that matter, does Dean actually know what a subreddit is?), but it seems like there’s a glimmer of hope deep in those scum-holes.

Sam gets translations for a few of the words – “obedience” and something he’s fifty percent sure means “millstone” – but the rest is still gobbledygook, and he hasn’t come down with another update in hours. The dungeon is pretty roomy, but it’s not like there’s a foosball table or a cable TV pickup down there, so Dean and Bones wind up lying on the cold-ass ground, staring up into the dark reaches of the ceiling together and, like. Chatting.

Occasionally Bones goes quiet and Dean glances over at him. He really could just be a totally normal, completely dead dungeon skeleton. A good power washing and the right mounting hardware and he’d be ready for a high school biology classroom.

“So if these runes are a celestial thing, does that mean you’re some kinda demonic...thing?” Dean asks. “Cause I gotta say, you’re a much less of a douche than the demons I’ve met.” He snorts. “I know you probably can’t say.”

Bones sighs (how? With what lungs?). “The last person who tried to free me was a demon.” He shifts a little, maybe surprised that he can say this out loud. “It had been so long since somebody had spoken to me…I’m afraid I came close to actually enjoying his company. But he was no better than his kind usually are.”

“Don’t suppose you caught his name? Maybe Sam or me killed him for you already.”

“He called himself—no, I can’t say it.” He makes a sound resembling a harumph.

Then his skull creaks over to look at Dean. “Does your name start with ‘C’?” he says, very deliberately.

Dean is momentarily puzzled, but he works it out by the time Bones wincingly adds “…because I’ve got a D that wants to come behind you.”

There aren’t too many demons under the “C” tab in Dean’s blood-stained mental rolodex, and when he says the name out loud, Bones makes a sound like an entire set of dominos being thrown down a spiral staircase.

Crowley is pretty pissed, which is fun.

It’s nice that the dungeon floor already has a perfect trap on the floor; they don’t even have to hit up Ace Hardware for paint. A damp shop cloth and a little nail polish (Wet ’n Wild in “Red Red,” don’t leave home without it) brings it right up to working order.

“Why does it smell like a nail salon fucked a bloody wine cellar?” Crowley says, after he’s settled down a bit. He manifested right in the creepy torture chair (in the shackles, even! What service!) and he made some escape attempts followed by angry noises about rust stains. Now he’s recovered his dignity and has kicked back a bit, legs crossed, fingers steepled, oozing maximum levels of 2 cool 4 school.

“How do you know what a nail salon smells like?” Dean retorts.

“I get a monthly mani-pedi. There’s no shame in a little self-care, boys.” Crowley’s eyes trickle down to their feet. “Imagine what fungal horrors those work boots must conceal.” Then he squints, and looks up, finally taking in the whole room. “Could swear I’ve been here before. Little upscale for you, isn’t it? Did we splurge for a vacation rental?”

“Crowley, why don’t we roleplay Titanic?” Bones growls from the wall behind him, and Crowley’s face goes slack. “I’ll be the iceberg, and you can go down.”

Crowley swallows and slowly twists back, as far as the shackles let him. “Feathers, is that you? Well, as I live and breathe.”

“You do neither,” says Bones, with so much gravelly contempt that Dean suppresses a little shiver.

“Oh, I still breathe now and then, when the mood takes me. I’m a sentimentalist.” Crowley cranes his neck a little harder and squints into the dim. “Goodness, you’ve dropped some weight since we last spoke, haven’t you. Finally let go of all that pesky soft tissue?”

Bones tilts forward and kind of clatters onto hands and knees, then tipsily begins to rise up to standing. Dean’s a little concerned he’s gonna topple right over and they’re gonna spend the next two hours collecting him in a basket, but when he moves to help out, Bones waves him off. After a couple false starts he makes it up onto his feet bones and then shuffles out to the end of his chain, right under one of the overhead lights. He’s still a good couple feet off from Crowley, but Crowley looks like he wouldn’t mind a few extra acres.

Bones sways a little bit, just enough for Crowley to wince. “You didn’t come back.”

“I got busy.”

Sam shifts impatiently. “What is he?” he snaps, gesturing at Bones.

“Exceedingly dull,” Crowley says. “I should’ve guessed you were friends.”

Dean uncorks a fresh bottle of holy water.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Crowley amends, quickly. “And even if you did, you wouldn’t know what to do with him. It’d be like giving a laptop to a pair of howler monkeys.”

Dean puts his thumb over the mouth of the water bottle and holds it over Crowley’s head. “Try me.”

Crowley scoffs, rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what he is, since he’s useless as long as he’s chained up. And I wouldn’t have left him down here if I had a single clue how to smuggle him out. I haven’t even been in here since the Bay of Pigs; I’d worked a loophole in one of the defense spells here that let me in. When it broke down, I lost my exploit. Wasn’t worth the bother after that.”

Dean slides his thumb a millimeter north of a perfect seal, and a fat drop of water busts its ass open on Crowley’s forehead and sends up a thin line of steam. “Good thing I’ve got a limitless supply of bother,” Dean notes. “Sam, we still got those syringes in the trunk?”

Crowley snarls. “Go ahead and melt me like the cartoon shoe in Roger Rabbit, it’s not going magically make me come up with a solution.”

Bones grunts and rattles his leg chain. “Do you speak Spanish, Crowley? Because you look like the Juan for me.”

“Did I teach you that one? You absolute xylophone.” Crowley glances back at Dean. “Do your worst, Squirrel, I deserve it.”

Sam frowns. “He uses the lines to get around the spell’s speech restrictions. This is something about speaking languages…were you able translate the Enochian symbols on his cuff?”

Crowley blinks. “What symbols?”

After a whole lot of faffing around with mirrors and terrible cellphone photography, they confirm that Crowley can’t see the symbols at all.

“More demon-proofing. Clever little buggers, those Men of Letters,” Crowley sighs. “A real shame they were peeled and eaten like bananas.”

Finally Sam just hunkers down with a pencil and pad to transcribe the entire ankle cuff, and Dean awkwardly holds up Bones’s ankle, like he’s being sized for a glass slipper. When they shove the results in Crowley’s face, Dean watches his eyes dart along the words.

“Well, it’s your lucky day, boys. Along with the usual wankery, there are instructions on how to release the cuff. I can translate it,” he finally says, with an unusually low inflection of bullshit, “but I’ll thank you to release me, first.”

Dean is flummoxed. “What, you’re not gonna haggle for a cut of the profits or anything?”

“Activating the release mechanism will free him completely, and restore his…restore him. I’d rather be at a safe distance.” He glances back at Bones, looming in the shadows. “A continent or three should do the trick.”

“If it doesn’t work–“

“I’d be more worried about what happens if it does,” Crowley sighs. “But feel free to summon me back for tea and sympathy. Here, I’ll even give you my number. But please, no personal photography. I pity you enough as it is.”

Crowley finally smokes out, and Dean has a beer to celebrate while Sam looks over the list of what they need and Bones clatters his fingertips like castanets. The ingredients are (as always) larded with shit that’s exotic and expensive; Sam is looking crestfallen at some of the items. “I’ve heard of all of this, but I’ve only seen maybe half of it for sale anywhere.”

“Baby, are you a yard sale? Because you’ve got some serious junk in that trunk,” Bones monotones. He’s back to lying on the floor.

At least it’s getting easier to translate this shit. “They’ve got all the ingredients here somewhere,” Dean says. Sam looks skeptical. “C’mon, Sam, no way these dudes would use a lock when they didn’t have the key.”

The ensuing scavenger hunt takes a few pints of elbow grease, but at least by the end they’re both familiar with the Bunker’s floor plan, document filing system, and inventory records. They find virtually everything in-house, though they do end up driving to the nearest farm stand for some hen’s eggs and rosemary (and heirloom tomatoes, because they look bomb).

Dean christens – or maybe exorcises – the kitchen range with some red meat, and they fuel up with burgers before taking the plunge. Dean’s still licking the ketchup off his fingers when Bones pipes up one last time. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

Dean and Sam brace for impact.

Bones sighs. “That’s not the start of a pickup line. I genuinely have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you so intent on freeing me? You could have just left me down here. I’m not a threat this way. You only have Crowley’s word that you might profit - or suffer - from my release.”

Sam gives Dean a look; it’s the look that says I sure hope you have an answer, because I think this entire thing has been dumb as shit and half as necessary. It’s a look Sam uses pretty regularly.

“Uh. It’s the right thing to do? As far as I can tell, you haven’t hurt anybody or done anything else to deserve being down here. We went through all those records upstairs, and there’s no note that says ‘by the way, that skeleton downstairs eats babies for breakfast.’ This place is cool, but the dudes who built it were obviously shady as fuck.”

“I see.” Bones sounds a little disappointed.

Sam fake-coughs into his hand, and Dean sets down his paper napkin. “Also, you seem cool. Like, you’re easy to hang out with. Other than the stinky one-liners, and we’re gonna wean you off of those.”

Bones straightens himself out a little. “Thank you, Dean. You know, on a scale of one to ten, I’d rate you a nine.”

“Okay, okay. Why not a ten?”

Bones sets his chin on his knuckle bones with a tidy little clack. “Because I’m the one you’re missing.”

Dean groans, but he thinks the guy might be smiling, somewhere behind that skeletal grin.

By hour two, Sam’s pretty tuckered out from pulverizing a billion and three mummified dove livers while reciting nonsense syllables, and Dean’s right arm is about to fall off from holding up this giant silver swizzle stick that’s either a really weird short sword or a decorative javelin, but Bones has never looked perkier. He’s lying on a nice white bedsheet and looking fresh as a recently exhumed daisy.

“Okay,” Sam rasps. “Light the candle and we should be good to go. Any last words, Bones?”

“Are either of you religious?” He crosses his arm bones over each other.

“Fuck no,” Dean answers, before Sam gets a chance to launch into it.

Bones shakes his skull fondly. “You should reconsider. Because you’re the answer to my prayers.”

Dean makes a gagging noise and lights the candle.

What happens next (well, after the cuff pops open) is some of the freakiest shit that Dean has ever seen, and his Freaky CV is pretty fucking impressive, thanks. Bones tells them to avert their eyes, “just in case”, but he takes a peek between his fingers anyway, because he’s an idiot.

For a second Bones is just lying there, and Dean has a second of real disappointment that maybe he’s Moved On Past The Veil or something, but then he starts…foaming. It starts out kind of uniform and colorless, but then it really picks up speed and volume and starts to separate into swaths of distinct and horrible colors and textures. He closes his eyes again for a second to give his stomach a chance to reboot, and when he looks again the foam is gone, and instead there’s a whole lot of angry jelly trying to form into organs.

Just as the jelly is really getting its shit together and looking more like lungs and intestines and stuff, the heart-jelly pulses once and sends out a fistful of big squishy vines…veins? and a fat white worm of nerve scrambles down the spinal column and starts putting out franchises. This is followed by some disturbingly tasty-looking red sheets of muscle that swiftly sheathe over all the whole scene, and then the muscles start sweating out fat and cartilage and this is the point where Dean decides that looking away is actually definitely one hundred percent for the best. Even then, the sounds are tough to handle.

Kinda wild: he’s seen people taken apart, but watching one get put back together is somehow gnarlier. Well, if this guy is even a person. It’s a human skeleton, sure, but god knows even Mickey Rourke has one under there.

Finally everything seems to have quieted down.

“How you doin’ over there, Bones?” Dean asks, and dares to take a peek.

Bones is crouched down in front of them, fists balled up in the bedsheets (it’s a relief that the bedsheets didn’t get accidentally sucked into the muscle layer or something, like one of those surgeons who leaves a sponge behind). Dean sees white guy skin and some dark messy hair and gets the gist of a decent build.

The face slowly cranes upwards, and Dean is really truly ready for anything here; tusks, fangs, Klingon forehead ridges, gingivitis. Instead he gets a faceful of hot math teacher. Bones’s eyes are still closed, but he’s frowning like he’s mentally reviewing his strategy to explain the quadratic equation to a roomful of horny teens.

He slowly rises to standing (yikes! Naked! Dean is a Moderately Bad Man, so he glances, but just long enough to register “nice), uncurling slowly and carefully.

Then he’s all the way up. Bones squares his shoulders and straightens the last kink in his spine, and the frown resolves. Dean’s about to say something, when his eyes snap open, and this cold white light absolutely blasts out of them, and fuck, Crowley wasn’t kidding: this guy is definitely A Thing. The whole room flattens and distorts in the light. Shadows race up the walls like they’re looking for a way out, then snap together into the shape of enormous ragged wings, stretching thirty feet higher than the actual ceiling clearance.

Then the light dies down; the wings fade into regular-grade shadows. Instead of a terrifying unearthly avatar of Oh Shit, Dean’s looking at a buck naked thirty-something math teacher. Who happens to be an unearthly avatar of Oh Shit. And has nice eyes.

“My name is Castiel, angel of the Lord, Seraph of the First Shield,” the avatar says, in a piss-shakingly resonant version of Bones’s voice.

Then: “Do you speak English, Dean?”

“Yes?” Dean fumbles.

“So do I,” says Castiel, and smiles.

Then he makes finger-guns.

Castiel sticks around for a grand total of five minutes before he’s suddenly gone again, because angels are (a) real and they can (b) teleport? at (c) any moment because (d) fuck you, then he reappears six hours later (clothed) standing over Dean’s bed, having apparently forgotten that humans like to sleep; this time Dean does shoot him, but luckily he doesn’t seem to take it personally.

“I located Crowley,” Bo- Castiel says. The silver sword-javelin thing is sitting on the kitchen counter in front of him; apparently it’s an Angel Blade and it lives in Castiel’s coat sleeve and can vaporize demons. It doesn’t look like it has any Crowley on it, but maybe it’s self-cleaning.

“Did you kill him?” Dean asks, now that he’s semi-coherent and wrapped around a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“Not this time,” Cas answers. “He did help, after all.”

“Sure,” says Dean.

“You don’t need to let me fuck you in the ass, either,” Castiel says, and Dean honks some coffee up the back of his nose.

“Oh,” he gasps. “Okay. Cool. Thanks. Didn’t realize you could hear that convo all the way down there.”

“Angels have excellent hearing. Mine wasn’t impacted by the spell.”

Dean can think of at least three very private moments Castiel almost definitely could hear every instant of, and longs for death. Or maybe not, since apparently this guy lives in Heaven and could hear him there, too. “Great. Good to know. Noted.”

“But…” Castiel looks wistful.

“What?” Dean nudges him. Dean Winchester: angel nudger.

Castiel frowns. “If I said…” he stops himself. “This is…what I want to say is very irregular, at least between angels and humans.”

“Jesus christ on a goddamn pogo stick, man. It’s three in the morning, some of us have a circadian rhythm and a limited lifespan. Say whatever it is you gotta say.”

Castiel looks up and drowns Dean in his swimming pool eyes, which Dean has learned belong to a radio ad salesman in Illinois, who Castiel possessed a few years back before jumping several decades into the past to run some errands and getting rope-a-doped by the Men of Letters and then warehoused in their basement; after they all spontaneously bought the farm, he just slowly ran out of the power reserves needed to keep his vessel from turning to mush and hey presto, talking skeleton.

Classic story, really.

“If I said you had a beautiful body, Dean,” Castiel says, solemnly, “Would you hold it against m-“

Dean doesn’t let him finish. {AO3 version}

#spn fanfic #destiel #deancas #profoundnet #prompt fic

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