#also. sorry to be mean but 'not your wheelhouse' ???? what the hell do you mean by that....

[kithj]

agree with all of your points here, but in response to anon... why does genderlocking a character mean that character's story then has to be about their gender? why does every female character have to have her story revolve around the oppression and misogyny she's faced within society? why do genderlocked trans characters only get to exist if we get to dissect their relationship with gender rather than just letting them... exist?

obviously, if you've read my work then you know i enjoy writing and reading about these things myself, but i really raise my eyebrow at anon's implication that certain people can only be in a story so long as it directly relates to their identity, or else it's "gender-neutral." men and women and nonbinary people are allowed to be included in any story in any genre, and their inclusion in that story shouldn't be limited to just their identity, and their identity also shouldn't be discarded when it's not. this goes doubly so for characters of color-- there are a lot of bipoc authors that voice this exact concern due to publishing limiting their work and only allowing them to tell stories that revolve entirely around their identity and the struggles they face because of it, versus white authors who have free reign to write about whatever they want.

limiting ourselves to only depicting certain people in this way is the opposite of what we should be advocating for. yes, everyone should always do research when it comes to writing a character outside of their own experience & you as the author should be aware of the way that character's identity may impact their relationship to the narrative you want to write, but reducing them to nothing more than that in the text can be just as harmful as ignoring it completely.

sometimes you do choose a character to be a certain way because you want to explore something in the narrative with them-- i did this with all of my characters in Blood Choke. but other times genderlocking happens just because it's what feels right! while there are some moments where gender is touched on in The Northern Passage, that is not the focus of the story (or the characters) at all. but i can't imagine depicting Clem, Merry, or Noel any other way. and sure, allowing gender selection may expand your audience, but for me, personally, i don't write solely to appease the largest audience. i write the things i want to write, and i like genderlocking for all of the reasons Harris listed and more. and to be clear, i also like the gender-selection mechanic! that's why Lea is still selectable; just like with the others, i can't imagine depicting them any other way. and Lea has just as much of a complex relationship with their gender as the other 3 characters-- they are not "gender-neutral."

i just really push back against the idea that player choice hinges entirely on whether or not a player can choose the genders of the other characters. like Harris said that is not the only thing of value in these kinds of stories, and there are so many other ways to approach interactive fiction than just romance/romance options, and i think it's a shame more people don't give certain IFs a chance because of something as silly as genderlocking.

Look, about the gender-locked thing, it's a nice idea. If you do something with it.

If you lock a certain character to a given gender, you can tell a story that relates to that gender. You can talk about and explore what gender is and how it affects the lives of people in your universe, what social roles are expected of them, how they relate to their bodies, how other people see them and how it affects the way they feel.

But, being honest, that's not your wheelhouse. You write gender-neutral stories, in which it might be acknowledged, but it doesn't influence the lives of your characters at all. You can write a gender-neutral story with gender-locked characters, certainly, the fact that not every single character of your previous games was gender-selectable is proof of that, but why would you? What there is to be gained, in narrative terms, with such a decision? It's more trouble than it's worth, given the climate of our community overall, where choice is valued immensely.

Now, if you want to try something new, if you want to write something completely different, then go ahead. Seize the opportunity. Just beware it's more complex than it first appears.

Mm, I don't think I agree that it's "more trouble than it's worth", or that NPC-gender choices are the main/only aspect of the value of player choice, but I think I understand what you're saying.

I'm not sure if "what is there to be gained" is rhetorical but if not here are some examples:

-it's easier to write specificity about characters' genders (whether it's solely acknowledging, or also influencing characters' lives) if it's not branched three ways

-eg it's easier to write two people of the same gender talking about some shared/differing experiences when it's set rather than it being a single section of a much wider set of branches

-I'd enjoy including romanceable characters who are canonically nonbinary rather than them being only that way under some circumstances (the last time I did this - or having all non-selectable romances - was in Blood Money, which was a long time ago now)

-it's easier to subvert or lean into various gender expectations and such when there's a single thread to write

-a lot of players have said they feel a fixed character is clearer in their mind; I don't always find this myself (and can find fixed characters also feel unclear, depending how they're written) but I've seen it said a lot

I am pleased with some of the specificity I put into Honor Bound (mostly for trans and nonbinary PCs and NPCs) so I do feel confident that I can do that side of things with selectable characters.

In general I think there are pros to both approaches, so it's interesting to think about.

(this ask is referring to these posts!)

[cooliestghouliest]

PUTTY, chapter one

(chapter one), (chapter two), (chapter three)

PAIRING: virgin!Eddie/former cheerleader!Reader

SUMMARY: Eddie has a little brother. Eddie’s little brother has a babysitter.

SERIES TAGS and C/W’s: mutual pining, experienced!Reader, inexperienced!Eddie but he’s eager to learn, mostly sub!Eddie, insecurities and self doubt, narcissistic and/or absent parents, jealousy, mean basketball players, hurt/comfort, they smoke weed, eventual smut (18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI), uniform kink, dirty talk, foot jobs, hand jobs, oral (f!receiving and m!receiving), public sex, sex toys, unprotected PiV. more to be added as this progresses!!!

WORD COUNT: 3.7k+

A/N: hi, my friends!!! this is a rewrite/repost and has been edited for a (hopefully) smoother, more enjoyable read. fun fact that this was one of the first Stranger Things fanfics i ever wrote. it was originally titled She Was Straight From Hell, But You Could Never Tell, and featured Eddie alongside an OC. i’ve changed it to be reader-insert, because that seems to be more in my writing wheelhouse nowadays. this fic will be multiple parts — it begins with backstory, but will eventually branch off into a universe of little smutty ficlets where Reader will corrupt virgin!Eddie as much as humanely possible.

—

Eddie hadn't known about the existence of his little brother until two months ago, when Al Munson showed up in the middle of the night with a small child in tow. Eddie didn't even know his dad was out of prison again, and yet here he was, in the flesh, a little boy with a mop of black curls resembling Eddie's own cradled in his leather jacket-clad arms.

Al was lucky Wayne was working or else this family reunion would have gone south fast.

While Wayne wasn't Al's biggest fan, Al was Eddie's dad, and Eddie would always hold onto as many moments with his father as he could get, no matter how sparse, and no matter how much of a self-serving piece of shit asshole Al Munson truly was.

But Eddie didn’t see it like that. Eddie saw it like this: His dad lived a hard life. His dad struggled with addictions. His dad lost a wife, just as Eddie had lost a mother. His dad tried his best with what he had.

Deep down, Eddie knew these were all just sorry excuses, but he kept that truth tucked away, not wanting to deal with the reality that Al truly only cared about himself.

He already had one dead parent. If he cut his dad out of his life, he’d basically have two.

"When'd you get out?" Eddie asked, stepping aside so Al could enter. His eyes followed the child, brows furrowed. The trailer was always Al's first stop on his freedom tour and the older man had always brought some sort of baggage along with him -- never a little kid, though. What the hell kind of trouble had his dad gotten into this time?

"Few days ago," Al replied, heading for the living room. He placed the sleeping child down on the worn sofa, then straightened and faced Eddie. "Listen, son, you gotta do me a favor. I'm not out long this time. I might've robbed an ATM or two last night. I'm kinda on the lam."

Al didn’t even have the decency to look sheepish at his wrongdoing.

Eddie was used to this. Even when Al was a free man, he was never a free man for long. He didn't think his dad knew how to coexist among non-inmate citizens. Eddie didn't think his dad even wanted to. Prison was a creature comfort for the elder Munson. Eddie wasn't necessarily mad at that fact. He was happy when Al was locked up, because then at least he knew where his dad was. Otherwise, Eddie worried his father would eventually get himself into a situation he wouldn't be able to get out of, and Eddie would really never see him again.

Eddie was also used to Al showing up after months and months, sometimes even years and years, such as now, always asking for favors.

"Who is that?" Eddie asked, pointing towards the couch, not being able to ignore the other human in the room any longer.

"Yeah, that's kinda what I need your help with.” Al rubbed at the back of his neck. "Well, no way to do this other than to just say it. That there's your little brother, Eddie. His name's Oliver. And I need you and Wayne to look after him while I'm gone."

"My... what..." Eddie stammered, face scrunching up. He expected Al to burst out laughing and admit he was just fucking around, and that this tiny sleeping stranger was actually just the kid of a fellow convict buddy. Maybe it was said convict buddy’s turn to rob ATMs tonight, leaving Al the babysitter. Irresponsible. Unlikely. And, turns out, untrue.

With Al's silence, Eddie knew his dad’s admission wasn't a joke.

Eddie was beyond confused now.

"Dad, how... you've been in prison for six years!"

"Conjugal visits," Al answered with a bit of a smug shrug.

Eddie shook his head in disbelief. "What the fuck? Wayne can't afford another kid that's not even his... and I'm in school still, I can't watch him... this isn't... I don't know how..."

But Al was already making his way to the door.

"I know you'll figure it out. I can always count on you, my boy," Al prided, tone cheery as if the favor he'd just asked of Eddie was to give him a quick ride somewhere or find an old family recipe.

Al wasn't acting like he was ditching another Munson offspring off on his older brother. He was treating this like an issue of minor importance, just a little speed bump on an otherwise flat road.

Al Munson was not an upstanding person. Never had been, never would be. Because of this, Eddie shouldn't have been surprised or appalled, but here he was, standing with his mouth agape. Surprised. Appalled.

His dad was out the door with a lighthearted, "See ya 'round, son," and Eddie was left speechless in the middle of the living room.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Wayne got over the new addition to the Munson household fairly quickly.

While he'd been livid at first, calling up all of Al's old friends he'd still had the numbers of to try and find out where his dumb shit of a younger brother was, Wayne eventually became resigned to the idea that he now had another little boy to rear and mold.

What else could he do?

Wayne took care of his kin, especially if they were innocent bystanders and had no say in being born in the first place. He'd raised Eddie, and although he knew the boy had his struggles, he didn't think he'd done too bad of a job.

Eddie never went hungry, always had clothes to wear, a bed to sleep in, and Wayne was the one who haggled Eddie's van down to a reasonable price so the boy could pay for it with his lunch box salary.

Wayne knew about the weed and the pills, but so long as Eddie stayed smart about where he was selling and who he was selling to, he didn't much mind Eddie's unconventional line of work. It helped his nephew stay somewhat social, and Wayne knew how important that would be for Eddie's future. If the boy was nothing but a lone recluse his whole life, he'd probably end up just like Al. Nobody wanted that.

Eddie was just about grown now. Sure, he was rearing twenty and still in his senior year of high school, but Wayne had an inkling that '86 would be Eddie's year.

Wayne had always thought about selling the trailer and buying an RV with retirement money once Eddie was out on his own. He wanted to travel the country for the remainder of his life.

The idea that he'd have to raise up another wild Munson for the next fifteen or so years caused a knot to form in his stomach.

Would Wayne even be around for that much longer? He may have been relatively healthy, and he was only in his mid 60's, but Wayne wasn't an idiot. He knew anything could happen at any time.

Wayne knew he needed help this time around. He figured he could count on Eddie here and there, but Eddie needed to focus on school this year if he planned on finally walking the stage. Because of this, Wayne decided to enlist the help of someone on the outside. Someone with experience.

So, he posted an ad in the Hawkins Post, looking for a full-time nanny for a five-year-old boy to start as soon as possible, and waited for a response.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Wayne didn't have to wait long.

Two mornings following the job post, shortly after he'd returned home from work, he heard a knock on the trailer door.

When he answered, he saw a pretty young thing standing on the front stoop.

"Hi!" you greeted, then immediately began to ramble. "Are you Mr. Munson? I hope it's okay I just showed up... there wasn't a number listed, only an address, and I didn't know if you wanted me to write a response and mail it, but the ad seemed maybe a little urgent, so I thought, hey, what's the harm in just... showing... up..."

You trailed off, feeling silly for word vomiting during your first impression. He was watching you with a small smile, eyes flickering with what looked like amusement, especially as your cheeks began to color to the soft red of embarrassment.

Listing no number on the ad was intentional. He hadn't owned a rotary phone in about ten years, after having tried to cut back on bills, and he knew not just anyone would make the trek to Forest Hills for a potential job offer. He’d figured only committed applicants that wouldn't waste his time would follow through.

"I have a lot of experience," you continued on at his silence, almost as if you couldn't help it, compelled to divulge all the information you could in the first three minutes of meeting. Wayne found it endearing. "I used to babysit for three different families when I was in high school. And I have two little sisters. My mom and dad worked a lot growing up, so I spent a lot of time with them. Didn't get paid, but... I made sure they didn't die or anything..."

From their brief interaction thus far, Wayne knew he succeeded in his method of weeding out flakes. You were obviously serious about the position. He felt he was a decent judge of character, and he'd learned in life that sometimes over-explaining was synonymous with caring.

"Sorry," you said, forcing out a little laugh. "I guess I could have just introduced myself. You didn't really need to know all that." You shot your hand out, giving your name. "I'm here about the nannying gig. Um, obviously. That is, if I didn't already scare you off."

Wayne took your hand in both of his own, shaking it. He placated you with a grin. "It's a lot harder than that to scare off a Munson, sweetheart. Let's go inside and meet Olly."

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Although Oliver Munson was only five, he had a spectacular vocabulary and a limitless imagination. Wayne knew the boy was a little charmer, quite like how Eddie was when he allowed himself to be, when the teenager wasn't drowning himself in existential teenage angst and nonsense.

You fell under Olly's spell almost instantly.

And it seemed the little boy had fallen under yours as well.

Oliver didn't stop talking to you while you were there, and didn't stop talking about you after you’d left, asking when you’d be back and if next time you could take him to the trailer park's playground and maybe you two could watch G.I. Joe or He-Man together afterward.

Wayne had taken your number down before you’d left and had told you he'd be in touch soon.

Later that evening, after Eddie had gotten back from his club meeting at school, Wayne took the trip into downtown Hawkins to use the payphone and ask you if you wouldn't mind starting as early as tomorrow.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

You were far from struggling for money.

Your father was a sought-after criminal prosecutor for the entirety of Indiana. Your mother was a real estate agent for high profile clientele who came from old family money; her father was CEO of a day trading business, and his father before him had been the same.

Although you likely would have never had to work a day in your life and could live a comfortable existence off of inheritance alone, handouts and the humdrum of an All-Play-and-No-Work lifestyle was never a dream of yours. That sounded so cookie cutter, so monotonous, so boring.

You liked to feel a sense of accomplishment. You liked setting goals and reaching them. You didn't want to freeload off of money that was gained from the capitalistic professions your parents were a part of. You wanted to be in control of your own finances and be the author of your own future, not have it already be etched into stone simply by being just another rich kid from Hawkins, à la the likes of the Carver's or the Cunningham's or the Harrington's.

You were ecstatic when you got the call from Wayne, asking you if you’d be willing to start the following day. He left for work at 2PM, so you’d have to be there before then, and would need to plan on staying until Wayne's nephew got home around six.

If you were to be completely honest with yourself, you felt a bit nervous, but the job itself wasn't the reason why that writhing feeling accompanied your excitement.

You had more than ten years of babysitting experience under your belt, and you were eager to get back into a job you actually enjoyed as opposed to trying out different careers to see what stuck and what didn't. Having graduated the spring before, you’d been taking an off year to save up money by working odd jobs around Hawkins to be able to buy your own apartment.

You’d worked as a florist for a few weeks, but it turned out your thumb was pitch black instead of green.

You worked as the personal assistant for a group of lawyers from a local law firm, but it turned out they just needed office eye candy and not someone to actually get any sort of work done.

You worked as a veterinary assistant, but it turned out the job was much more than just petting cats and dogs. You couldn't handle it when a sick animal would come in and there would be nothing anyone could do. Your heart broke more at that clinic than it had your entire life.

You were in between jobs when you’d decided to peruse the classified section of the Hawkins post. There, in the shortest blurb on the page, was a listing for a needed nanny, a full-time position offering negotiable pay.

The next bit was where the excitement wavered.

The listing was published by a Wayne Munson of the Forest Hills trailer park.

That had to be Eddie Munson's uncle. There was no way there were two separate Munson families living in the only trailer park in Kerley County.

You couldn't believe that you’d stumbled across this ad, that the geeky metalhead you’d crushed on since your freshman year of high school had a little brother you could be the potential nanny of.

You were two years younger than Eddie, but that hadn't stopped you from losing periods of time to daydreams about the way the wind ruffled his wild mess of curls on breezy days or the way his band tee sleeves always clung perfectly to the soft muscles of his biceps or the way his cheeks dimpled when he teased the other boys he sat with at lunch.

You’d always wanted to introduce yourself, but you didn't run in the same crowds -- you being on the cheer team and Eddie blasting Black Sabbath in the parking lot after his Hellfire meetings. You could never muster the courage. He seemed so carefree, so full of life, so effortlessly funny. Chrissy Cunningham, your best friend, had spoken to him once or twice and had told you how different he was than what other people said about him. He wasn't scary or mean or threatening, and instead was warm and silly and genuine.

But you knew how the people you spent your time around treated people like him. You knew your group of "friends" referred to him as a freak, a Satan worshipper, and did everything in their power to try to bully him into becoming a shell of himself. Thankfully, he never did -- it was almost as if Eddie absorbed the hatefulness and spent it tenfold by mocking the hilarity of the jock hierarchy that ruled the school, as well as using it to strengthen his own ability to embrace every misfit that walked the halls of Hawkins High.

You never introduced yourself because you were afraid he’d think you had an ulterior motive, that you’d be trying to talk to him as a joke or a prank. You knew the company you kept. You were sure Jason Carver had once or twice suggested you do just that, lead Eddie on and make a fool of him in front of the whole school.

You figured it'd be best to just stay away.

But now, you thought finding this ad was possibly a sign from the universe.

Maybe you were getting a second chance.

𖤐 ֪ 𖤐 ֪ 𖤐

Eddie was running late.

He was supposed to be back home half an hour ago to relieve whoever Olly's new babysitter was of her duties, but the campaign had taken a shocking turn and Hellfire couldn't disband until it had commenced.

The night finally ended with Will's character decapitating Dustin's, and Eddie had to thwart an actual attack when Dustin leapt across the game table at Will in a bout of rage. Dustin was small but mighty, and Eddie had to physically wrestle the boy off of Will's neck, threatening to banish Dustin from the next few campaigns if he didn’t chill out. Henderson had huffed and puffed but had admitted defeat and apologized to Will for the attempted murder.

By the time Eddie arrived back to the trailer park, the sun had almost set. He pulled his van into his parking spot to the right of the trailer and shut it off. Stepping out, he swung his backpack over his shoulder, but came to a halt when he heard Olly's scream sound from behind the trailer.

Dropping his bag and beginning to run toward the noise, Eddie's heart fell to his stomach. Horrible images of what could possibly be pulling that sound from his little brother pervaded Eddie's mind. He had an overactive imagination to begin with, and something like this verbal cue only egged it on. "Olly!" he shouted, panic raising his voice. "Olly, are you okay?! What’s going on, where are --"

Eddie came to a halt when he found the boy in the backyard with a huge smile spread across his small, sweaty face. Olly had a fake crown on, one made of twigs and leaves, and he was carrying one of the biggest sticks Eddie had ever seen. He had a blanket tucked into the back of his shirt, the cloth a makeshift cape. A thin piece of metal, probably from one of the cars Wayne and Eddie sometimes worked on, was wrapped around his center, acting as armor.

Olly had just been playing.

Letting out a heavy breath of relief, Eddie noticed your frame just off to the side. His eyes started from the ground up, noting the shiny red Docs donning your feet, moving up bare legs that were covered mid-thigh by a short black skater dress, one that hugged your curves in a way that had Eddie’s mouth going dry.

By the time he reached your face, your eyes were wide with amusement.

You’d been watching as he slowly drank you in. He didn't mean to ogle. He had to shake his head a few times to clear it, and when he did so, the face before him started looking more and more familiar.

"Wait," he started, head tilting. He spoke your name, tone riddled with confusion. "From high school?"

You were about to answer when Oliver cleared his throat, obviously not wanting to be ignored or to have his playtime interrupted any longer. You looked down at the boy, who pointed up to his head at his crown. You got the gist -- Olly wanted the game to continue. You could indulge him. You’d been doing it all day, and honestly you’d been having the most fun you’d had in a while.

You turned your attention back to Eddie, fixing your posture and jutting your chin out slightly. "I don't know who that is," you began, voice lilting. "I am Princess Guinevere of Kerley County and this here,” you brought your gaze back down to Oliver, “is my most loyal servant, Sir Olly of Castle Munson."

Eddie couldn't help the grin that broke out over his face at your announcement. He then took a moment to fully take in the rest of your appearance. You, too, had on a makeshift crown, this one made up of cherry blossoms and daisies. You had a flowing blanket tucked into the back of your dress, cascading down your back like a veil.

No fucking way were you, last year's cheerleading captain and prom queen, standing in his backyard playing fucking knights and princesses with his little brother. No fucking way.

Olly broke the silence by shouting out, "Hey, Eddie! Who are you gonna be?"

Eddie tore his eyes from you to focus on his brother. He pursed his lips to one side in thought, trying to come up with a character. He was usually quick on his feet when it came to creative play, but he had just spent the last three hours DM'ing a month-long DnD campaign. His brain felt shot. He was pulled from his introspective reverie by your soft, suggestive voice — no, sorry — the soft, suggestive voice of Princess Guinevere.

"Wanna be my dragon, Eddie?" you asked.

Eddie wasn't exactly sure why that made his breath catch in his throat.

He nodded dumbly, silent, then forced himself to speak because he didn't want to look totally lame in front of a Princess. "Okay. Yeah, I'll be your dragon."

You graced him with a smile before Oliver's tiny but booming voice cut through the air of the darkening night. "HEY! Dragons don't talk!" the boy stomped his foot and hit his stick against the muddy ground in annoyance.

A laugh bubbled from your throat and Eddie grinned, jumping into a wide-legged stance before outstretching his arms, tilting his head back, and roaring.

[new-tella-us]

Cambion Looooooore

I am now invested in these boys' noncanon children and how they work.

What I'm gunna discuss here is briefly some nonvisual differences between humans, demons and angels and how their hybrids tow that line. Also some differences in how humans and demons are raised.

The differences I mean are how they learn and what type of powers they have.

Also this is long as hell. Sorry.

Angels are the simplest. They don't learn. All the knowledge they need for their species is cooked into their brains at birth and they have no capacity to learn outside of that knowledge. Sure they can learn emotional things and develop as a person but straight up book knowledge is a nah. They have a wide range of powers but generally whatever powers you're born with, you're stuck with. The only exceptions are powers given to certain titles that you earn through hard work and dedication. Knowledge instantly zapped into your soul for the most worthy. So spells of immortality, destiny, future, past, healing and all existential stuff. The only one that is currently not available is the ability to predict the future, a power that should have gone to the angel of destiny but was stolen by a very smart, very chaotic, and INSANELY lucky (mostly)demon.

Demons can learn but only a limited amount, they are insanely good at learning, can start learning from the goddamn womb, and can learn general spells and master spells specific to their species/mixed of species. Baby ain't even fully cooked yet and they can speak three languages. However any spells specific to a species outside of their wheelhouse is a no go. (This means I am also slightly deviating from canon by saying Diana can't use that one spirit animal spell. That is specific to animal demons). They can gain the instant knowledge that angels are able to obtain but they'd have to steal it and you would be a fool to even try and be thankful if you lived with a lost limb.

Humans are the most versatile but also the weakest. They aren't born with knowledge and can't learn until a certain age but their curiosity and ability to learn is where they shine. Humans can learn anything. And I mean ANYTHING. Multiple dead demon languages have been lost because demons didn't have the curiosity to find the missing pieces and reconstruct the language meanwhile humans do while living lives five times shorter. They can also learn any spell and any magic including magic specifically for a species of demon or a type of angel (if any angel bothers to write down their abilities) but at a weaker amount. They can't really master anything outside of general magic. So they're the jack of all trade, master of none. Though sometimes that's better than the master of one.

Because of these differences, angels, demons and humans are raised differently. For sake of simplicity, I'll save angels for another time and just get into demons. We know how humans are raised.

Demons are raised with many rituals, even the poorest, most unfortunate demons have rituals for their young and themselves. This could be for giving the child a name, worship, power, health, knowledge, on even just an unofficial call on whatever god(s) they believe in for help. Rituals are a staple among demon children. They don't have schools or stuff but they do learn the trades their parents use, raising is usually very hands on with an emphasis in family. The parents may not love each other but they do (usually) care about their kids. Demon kids are also usually raised around other kids though this tends to be dependent on culture and hierarchy. You're more likely to see poorer demons or more tribal demons do that social bonding than you are to see richer or more governmental demons do that. It's mainly for social ties and to see if your kid finds someone strong enough or that they tolerate enough to eventually populate with.

With that being said, where to cambions fall on this? Not anywhere in particular. As a general thing, cambions are pretty disliked by everyone. If humans knew about the not human side, they'd probably try to kill them, demons try to kill them, angels literally hunt them. They ain't doing too well. But it's not all doom and gloom. Cambions fall on a spectrum, and like mixed-raced humans, they can sometimes fall on an extreme end of their human-demon origins and can essentially be raised fully human or fully demon. Examples of that being Twila and Sirius(Erik/Mika child) for human-passing and Leilani(Matthew/Mika child) for demon-passing. Yes, if Leilani put on the cultural outfit with her taint and went into the Abyssal Plains, demons would be none the wiser as she is very powerful and almost indistinguishable from other demons. It's really just the eyes that set her apart and they don't look human either.

Most cambions, however, fall in the middle and need to be raised with both. They need their curiosity satiated, they need friends and a stable home but they also need rituals and that very hands on experiences that humans have slowly phased out of with technology. The most blatant example of what happens when you raise a cambion to be too much of one extreme is Ray (James/Mika child).

If we're talking OG James and Ray, James tried to raise Ray as if Ray was human and it left him feeling empty and disconnected, like something (the rituals) was left out of his life. James was definitely more hands on than most "human" fathers are expected to be (and more hands on than his parents were) but he was lacking by demon standards, Ray needed that and it's why he turned out so angry and chaotic. He's lashing out from a core need not being met. Hell, notice, I've never mentioned a demon name for Ray. He has one. It's called "Inviolis" but you might as well not know that as James never uses it. In his attempt to prevent Ray from putting himself in danger by knowing about the demon world, James accidentally denied Ray basically a part of his soul. And in classic prophecy action, James preventing Ray from knowing about the Demon World causes Ray to eventually go to the Demon World.

On the other hand, if we're talking about the King James timeline (the nicer one where James doesn't completely go mad) we get the opposite problem. Ray (Now Inviolis) is being raised too much like a demon. He doesn't have a human name nor any of the stabilities of a human life. His curiosity is denied, he's being smothered by servants that dislike him, the rituals are too much and too often, there is no safety or time to sleep. Where Ray is the demon version of neglected, Inviolis is the human version of smothered with his individuality denied. And then he has a bad relationship with his father so great job, Raestrao. This, like the OG, causes Inviolis to run off, this time to earth. Ray, like most cambion, need both. Give them only one and they'll never be happy.

Luckily for everyone involved, OG James takes the hints eventually and starts catching Ray up on all those demon practices he missed.

[saralayne]

This Love ~ Part 10 🩵💜

Stand With Me

Tim asks his best friend to stand with him as his best woman.

Grand gestures were definitely not in Tim Bradfords wheelhouse. He liked to keep things simple. Well, that was until a hot shot rookie entered his life. Slowly but surely he became in tune with his feelings. To a point. He was still him in some ways. Lucy’s influence has definitely changed him.

The wedding details have all been taken care of. Lucy being Lucy had asked Tamara to be her maid of honour in an elaborate way. Because, of course she did. To be fair, Tamara was their daughter. Everything with Tamara deserved something big. Still, Lucy worked with Angela everyday and she hadn’t heard a story of Tim asking her to stand with him. Lucy knew she would have. “Babe, what did Ang say when you asked her to be your best woman” asking Lucy. “Umm. Nothing. Since I haven’t actually asked her” replying Tim. “WHAT!?! What the hell Tim?” screaming Lucy. “Whoa. Baby. Settle down Angela knows it will be her standing up there with me” muttering Tim. “Tim. She’s your best friend. She asked you to be her best man with macaroons and got down on one knee for gods sake. She deserves to at least officially be asked. She has been a cheerleader for us since the very beginning.” sharply Lucy added. “Ok. Ok. I will talk to her BUT Luce I’m not you. I’m not planning some over the top moment to ask her. Understand? I realize you went big with T. But she’s our daughter” smirking Tim. “Yeah. Yeah. I get it. Mr. grumpy pants. Just ask her”

As Tim drove to the station. Smiling to himself while rolling his eyes. Never in his life especially since Isabel, did he ever expect to be so influenced. Not only that, but be overtaken by a short, brown eyed beauty. Here he was. Absolutely a sucker for Lucy Chen. He wouldn’t have it any other way. As he thought about it. Lucy was right. Angela had been there for him for years. Standing beside him and supporting him through the darkest times of his life. Never wavering, no matter how hard he pushed people away. She was his ride or die for a long time now. She deserves to be properly asked to stand with him in the most important moment of his life. When he marries the love of his life. She was also their biggest supporter. Making Tim realize time after time that his feelings for Lucy were more than platonic. Bringing him out of his denial.

During a break in the day, Tim headed out to do a little shopping.

Lucy was helping the detectives with a case. They had been out doing some investigating. As they returned to Wilshire. Angela noticed a box with flowers placed on top of the box. “Uh oh. What is Wesley making up for now? questioning Nyla. Angela chucking. “Nothing to my knowledge. Usually I’m pretty in tune with his mess ups” whispering Angela. The flowers were a beautiful bouquet of yellow carnations. Yellow the colour of friendship. Lucy had a 100 watt smile smeared across her face. “Chen. What’s your deal?” asking Angela. “Oh look there’s a card. Read it” As Angela read the card. Not able to wipe the smile off her face. “Oh. This is all your doing isn’t it Chen?” asking Angela. “I don’t know what your talking about” smirking Lucy. “Tim Bradford. A grand gesture. He didn’t get here on his own. Macaroons. The same way I asked him to be my Man Of Honour” questioning Angela. “Again, I don’t know what your taking about. What does the card say?” muttering Lucy. Angela began laughing. Skimming the note before reading it out loud.

“Lopez. I can’t pull a fast one on one of the best detectives in LA. (Sorry, my almost wife is a detective now. So you will have to share the spotlight) so yes, Lucy might of had a hand in this gesture. BUT that doesn’t take away what your friendship has meant to me and continues to mean to me. I could go on and on. Not gonna completely turn into fiancée. Will you be my best woman and stand up with me?”

“Oh my gosh. Bradford has turned into a complete softie” whispering Nyla. “Yeah, he has. I wonder who’s influence is responsible for this?” Angela turning towards Lucy. “Again, I don’t know what you are talking about?” responding Lucy sharply. “Uh. Huh. Well I guess I better not keep him waiting for my answer. Or maybe I should?” laughing Angela.

Tim was buried in paperwork when there was a knock at his door. Angela enjoying one of the macaroons Tim had gifted her.

“So. I see you got my gift?”

“Yes I did. I gotta say. These macaroons are delicious”

“I’m sure. And, do you have anything to say to me?”

“Well. Maybe. You know what the best part of getting your gift was?”

“What is that?”

“Your fiancée was there and she was very smug about it. Are you sure you wanna marry someone more smug than you?”

“Ok, she might have had a small part in this. But she was right. You deserved to be asked. And to answer your question. Lucy acting smug just shows that I trained her well. I can’t wait to marry her. You, my best friend had it all figured out. She is without a doubt the love of my life. Thank you for pulling me out of my denial and getting my head on straight”

“Well. I am LA’s best detective” giving Tim a big smirk. “But, anyone with eyes could see the way you looked at her, and the way she looked at you. You both should win a medal for the level of denial you were in. I’m just glad I could be a part of guiding you in the right direction. Really, your only direction. All joking aside. It has been a pleasure and a joy to watch your love story come alive. I have never seen you happier. She brings out the best parts of you. You do the same for her. It’s almost nauseating how joyful she is all day long. You complete her”

“So…Is that a yes?”

“Yes. Bradford. I would love to stand up with you. Be your best woman when you finally say I DO”

“Ok. Get out of here Lopez. Let me finish my paperwork so I can get home to my beautiful fiancée”

“Gross. You two are sickening. Alright, later Bradford”

“Later Lopez”

[chocoholicannanymous]

Concepts of Insanity (Glee)

AN: No proofreading whatsoever. Subject to rewrite if I change my mind about it. Take it or leave it.

Concepts of Insanity

“Kurt? Oh, there you are, good. We have an emergency!”

Kurt smiles a little as he finishes up rearranging the flowers. He adores Isabelle, he really does, but she's a bit...excitable. There's always an emergency, or a disaster, or a catastrophe. So far today there's been four, unless he's miscounting; a lose hem, a missing delivery of non-alcoholic champagne, Isabelle almost fainting from forgetting to eat, and the flowers he's currently fixing not being enough something or other. He's actually kind of curious what it is this time.

He gives the flowers a last look, nods with satisfaction and turns around. The smile on his lips dies the second he meets Isabelle's eyes. This isn't a normal emergency.

“What's wrong?”

“The musicians are here, only the vocalist is currently throwing up to the point where they've called an ambulance.”

Kurt winces. That doesn't sound good for whoever it is. Also it really doesn't sound good for them. Isabelle had gone out on a limb with the small ensemble she'd hired for the event, deciding to make the music more than a background by having some songs performed with vocals. To have the vocalist missing would throw off the setlist. Maybe not enough for most people to notice, but at an event like this? Someone would definitely notice.

Especially since word seemed to have spread.

“I've spent the last ten minutes on the phone, and there's not a single vocalist to be had. This is so bad, Kurt! I'm never going to hear the end of this.”

Kurt hesitates, uncomfortable with voicing his possible solution, but deciding to offer it up anyway. It's Isabelle.

(Plus Rachel will never forgive him if he doesn't and she finds out.)

“I know it's not what you were aiming at, but my roommate is a NYADA student, and I know that most of the songs you picked out is in her wheelhouse. I could call her? If she answers she could hop in a cab and be here in 30 minutes.”

Isabelle looks a bit hesitant, but nods.

“Please do. I'll pay for the cab too, obviously. Check back with me in 5 minutes?”

Kurt agrees and hurries out to a silent space, phone in hand already dialing as he walks. There's no response for his first call, and Kurt leaves a hurried voice mail for Rachel to call him asap as it's an emergency. He then sends the same message as a text before trying to call again. He manages to squeeze in a total of five calls before he has to return to Isabelle, without response.

Maybe Rachel's in the shower again. Or singing. Or on a date with Brody.

“I'm sorry, Isabelle. I couldn't get hold of her.”

“Never mind, I have an idea. Can you do it?”

Kurt stares at her, not quite believing he heard her right.

“Me?” She nods and he shakes his head. “Isabelle, you've never even heard me sing!”

“True. But honey, I know how good you are with fashion. For you to chose music over that you have to be either insanely talented or just insane. So, will you do it?”

Kurt wants to shake his head again. What she's suggesting is crazy. Yes, Kurt can sing, but... His focus on music is more and more looking like insanity. He's just gotten rejected by Carmen Tibideaux a second time, for crying out loud. “Devoid of complexity and depth” echoes through his skull.

Except. This is Isabelle asking. His fairy godmother of sorts. He owes her.

“Are you sure? I'll do it, if you really want, but I'm not going to be anywhere as good as whoever you'd hired,” or Rachel for that matter, “and I don't want to ruin this for you.”

“You are going to be amazing. Thank you, Kurt, you're a lifesaver!”

And with that Isabelle floats off, leaving Kurt in a dazed state. He's going to panic, sooner or later, but for now he's still too stunned for it.

Right. His first action has to be to talk to the ensemble. The plan was to have the vocalist on three sets of three songs throughout the evening, but he's not entirely clear on what numbers had finally been picked. He will probably need to review lyrics up until the guests arrive, provided he can actually manage all of them. He's got a good range, yes, but that's not everything.

Oh, and he should swing by Isabelle's office and nab the blue west he'd spotted earlier – he'd dressed to fade against the wallpaper, not to be seen.

The first set goes well, as does the second. By the third and final he's lost enough of his nerves to let Isabelle drag him out on the floor instead of going off to hide as he'd initially planned. Several people drop by to talk, and he gets more than a few compliments. Maybe it's more about looking good to Isabelle than about actually liking it, but Kurt will take it anyway.

“So, you must be not just a talented singer but talented in fashion too for Isabelle to have taken you under her wing. Do you study fashion or music?”

The woman, Nadia something, asking sounds genuine and so Kurt gives her a small smile and answers as pleasantly as he can.

“Neither actually. I'm applying to NYADA though.”

There's a flash of something in her face, but Kurt can't quite make out what it is.

“For the spring semester? Ah.” She hesitates, sends a look towards where Isabelle is talking animatedly about something, and then looks at Kurt again.

“Can I be honest? Carmen Tibideaux is a very talented woman, in everything she does, and she's got an eye for picking out talent. However, she's also got a bit of a reputation.

“She loves to discover new talent that others overlook. Except every now and again she'll go about it in a rather underhanded way. She'll have someone audition, someone talented but a little raw around the edges. Someone with a ton of talent but a weak resumé, often with a little less self-esteem than most performers. She'll praise them and then turn them down. Most of the time they'll come back, looking for a second chance – she said they were great, right? Surely that means they'll get the part sooner or later, if they just approach it right.”

Kurt swallows. It sounds a little too familiar for comfort.

“Sometimes she'll turn them down both a second and third time, and then she'll put them on the spot, giving them another chance as long as they step out of their comfort zone and perform to her standards. And then she'll take them, and she'll own them. They'll go through their whole careers claiming they owe it all to her.”

She looks Kurt in the eyes, sincerity radiating out of her – but Kurt knows how little that means, in these circles – and a kind expression on her face.

“I'm not saying that's you, but for you to be applying to the spring semester, with your level of talent... If she's doing it to you, you should know you're not the first, and I doubt you'd be the last.

“Any school would be well served to have you as a student, I think. I already know you're talented, and as I know Isabelle I also know you have to be hardworking. Plus, seeing as that ensemble always works with a female vocalist I'm assuming something happened to have you step in at the last minute, meaning you stand up to pressure.

“NYADA is not the only school in New York for a young man like you, and I'd argue that it's not the best either. Think about what I've said, will you? And thank you again for a very enjoyable performance.”

It's only years of pretending in the face of bullies and a worried father that allows Kurt to pull of a believable goodbye and graceful exit. After this he's definitely hiding in Isabelle's office, damn it.

When Kurt comes back to the loft it's late and he wants nothing more to fall into bed, nighttime routines be damned. But Rachel's sitting on the couch, waiting for him judging from the expectant look on her face.

“I tried to call you.” It comes out a little flat, but Kurt doesn't have the energy to pretend. He needed her, called an emergency damn it, and she hasn't even texted him back in the six hours since his frantic calling.

“I heard, but I was busy practicing my number for tomorrow.” She doesn't even look sorry.

“Oh? I thought you said you didn't have any assignments for tomorrow.” That was why he'd felt safe calling her, after all.

She just waves a hand, clearly not too bothered.

“Nothing official, no, but that's no reason not to be ready to perform. I'm sure there will be an opening for me to dazzle my classmates.” And she goes on to describe the songs she's considered, and who's done them, and why her version is better, and Kurt just...tunes her out.

She hasn't even asked what he wanted. It's as if the thought hasn't even passed her mind. Well. If she's not interested then he's not going to waste his time telling her – especially not since she's bound to get upset over losing an opportunity to perform for an actual audience. He's also not going to waste his time listening to her go on about what she'd done instead of checking in on him.

“I'm going to bed.”

“Kurt! I need your input on this, surely bed can wait a bit?” When he shakes his head  her face hardens. “Fine, be that way. NYADA is hard, you know. It takes dedication. Maybe if you showed a little more of that you would have gotten accepted.”

Kurt shoves down the desire to slap her and bites out a “goodnight” before stalking off to bed. He can't believe she went there. Oh wait, he can. It's so Rachel, to just look at herself and ignore everything else. Show more dedication? Devoid of complexity and depth. Fuck her. Fuck them both.

Kurt had knocked his audition out of the park. Rachel and madam Tibideaux both had admitted that. Meanwhile Rachel had choked. Yet he'd been rejected while Rachel fucking Berry swanned around NYADA claiming to be dedicated. She never should have gotten accepted based on her audition. And somehow he just knows that there's no way she'd admit that Kurt should have been given that spot, not her.

As for madam Tibideaux and her “I rarely give anyone a second chance and if I do it's on my terms”... Bah! Rachel had harassed her way into her second chance. Hell, she'd recruited several others to also harass the madam on her behalf.

But somehow Kurt reapplying was the foul thing here. Right.

Maybe it was time he looked at options other than NYADA. That woman at the vogue event, she'd said that other schools might be a better fit for him. She'd sounded like she knew what she was talking about. Unlike Kurt, honestly, who'd pinned his hopes on NYADA based on Rachel. Hindsight has him questioning if he'd been slipped something, because leaving his college education up to whatever Rachel wanted? Insanity.

Well. Insanity is doing the same thing over again and expecting a different result, right? Clearly it's time to change his approach.

O--o---o--O

A week later Rachel comes home from the NYADA Winter Showcase bubbling about her success and how she's taken them all by storm. She makes a snide comment or two about how Kurt should have been able to see it for himself, had he taken the ticket she'd gone through so much trouble to acquire for him instead of doing whatever (it's called work), and Kurt just nods. He doesn't really care, but. He has to at least pretend to listen to preserve peace in the loft.

“Oh, I almost forgot! Madam Tibideaux asked after you.”

Kurt stills like a dog scenting prey. This he wants to hear.

“Oh?”

“Yes, apparently she was considering giving you another chance at applying. I don't know why she had to do it tonight, as it's for NYADA students and you're not, but she did. You should probably contact her. If you apologize properly she might still be open to it.”

Rachel looks at him, waiting for a reaction and clearly not pleased with what she's seeing.

“Well?”

“I'll think about it, Rachel. Calm down.”

And he will. Only he's not too eager to apologize to madam Tibideaux, or give her another chance to toy with him and probably reject him (he didn't show up for what she had planned, after all). It all sounds very much like what Nadia described at the vogue event. He listened. He might not have liked what he heard, or wanted to believe it, but he listened. In more than one way.

Over the past seven days he's written half a dozen applications to various music schools in New York, and sent them out. His current favorite is the New School, where a tour of the campus has given him a very good vibe. He'd be happy there, he thinks, and they might be happy with him. At least that's his take from meeting a couple of faculty members, one of the more prestigious of which just so happens to be Nadia.

Who would have guessed that doing a favor for Isabelle would lead to this? He might just owe her even more by now. Fairy godmother indeed.

~ The End ~

[serpentstole]

(this is a bit of a personal question, you don’t have to answer if you wish, also sorry if this questions has already been answered in the past)

I noticed that you come from a Christian background. While I was never formally Christian, it’s definitely influenced me. I’ve become more and more interested in Luciferianism over the past year or so, but I can’t seem to get over the fear of being deceived and going to hell. How did you get over this fear (if you had it)? Thanks!

I don't mind answering this at all, it's a fair question and I'm pretty comfortable talking about both my Christian background and my religious journey to get to this point.

I'm going to preface this by saying I was raised Lutheran, since the Protestant view of the afterlife is a bit different than the Catholic one. No purgatory or limbo, and all that.

Damnation wasn't ever a huge fear of mine, if I'm being fully honest. I was already on the fence on my view of Heaven during my youth in the church, so the afterlife as a whole wasn't something I concretely believed in. This made it something that wasn't a huge comfort to me, but also wasn't something I deeply feared.

The Christian perception of hell is also... complicated, and a bit inconsistent, and has evolved over time. I genuinely do not think I could try to discuss all the variation it has between branches of the religion on just a modern level, how it's overlapped with other views of the afterlife like Hades in a historic sense, or what specific aspects came from the writings of which theologians without this turning into a huge essay and without treading far outside knowledge I'm confident I know.

I mention this because it's hard for me to even believe in the concept of a fire and brimstone land of eternal torture when there's so much debate over if it should even be taken so literally, so you may find some comfort in that.

If by being deceived you mean by Lucifer himself, as in it's revealed to you in the end you were serving the actual evil Satan figure that takes your soul and kicks you into a fire pit, that one is absolutely in my wheelhouse.

Satan being in charge of Hell is new. Well, new-ish. Think Dante's Inferno or Milton's Paradise Lost new. The implication in the Bible tends to be that the figure called Satan is working as an extension of God's will. For example, in the story of Job, Satan claims Job's devotion comes from his good fortune, and God allows Satan to ruin Job's life for a bit to see if he's still faithful. Elsewise, it's explicitly stating that devil type figures will themselves be tormented in what a lot of people see as hell (Revelation 20:10, And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night for ever and ever). So even if we go the Biblical Literalism route, which I tend not to do unless I'm discussing topics like whether or not something appears in the bible as it's commonly assumed it does, Lucifer/Satan/the devil is only Sometimes officially in charge of hell and who gets damned.

All this to say... we don't really know what's coming. Not textually, and not beyond what we decide are our beliefs are based on what makes sense to us, or any occult experiences we have that feel like they prove things one way or the other, such as someone who works with their ancestral spirits or the dead in general believing there is in fact something after death. But if we did know for certain, it wouldn't be called having faith.

I believe that the Lucifer I venerate is Lucifer as light-bringer and torchbearer, whose temptations and rebellions were for a greater sense of knowledge, understanding, and liberation. I view Azazel as he appears in the Book of Enoch, as a Promethean teacher who was cast out and chained beneath a mountain for sharing heaven's secrets with mortals and being tempted by a more human experience. And I have a place in my Luciferianism for Eve, the first of us who defied God to understand the nature of morality. My view of them is shaped a great deal by Christianity and the works that have come out of it, but they're viewed through the lens of my Luciferianism as great teachers and ideals, rather than as a cautionary tale.

What's important to me is that my religion is one I'm passionate about and sincere in, and that its values are ones I hold dear and strive to live in my day to day life. For me, Luciferianism and having a Luciferian mindset felt like what I'd been looking for most of my life without having a proper name for it.

And if I get damned for that, I'll be in excellent company.

I hope that helps a little, and you're always free to get in touch again if you have anything else you want to ask/discuss.

[captcas]

Too Many Minutes

Rolling onto her side, she grabs her phone out of habit. There’s a spark of hope settled deep in her chest before she opens it to a screen empty of notifications beyond a few spam emails. Why would he greet her with his usual good morning? It’s not going to be a good morning… she hasn’t had a good morning in three weeks.

Three weeks, four days, and twelve hours. read on ao3

If it weren’t for the pounding in her head and uncomfortably dry tears on her cheeks, Emma would’ve thought this was all just a bad dream.

“It’s not the fact that you’re scared, Emma… I– you know I understand being scared. It’s that– it’s just so easy for you to– you’d rather give into that fear than fight it together. I thought we were stronger than that.”

She hates when he calls her Emma.

Rolling onto her side, she grabs her phone out of habit. There’s a spark of hope settled deep in her chest before she opens it to a screen empty of notifications beyond a few spam emails. Why would he greet her with his usual good morning? It’s not going to be a good morning… she hasn’t had a good morning in three weeks.

Three weeks, four days, and twelve hours.

Her body shifts into the autopilot she’s relied on since he walked out the door. She starts crying again, this time the tears collecting at her feet with the hot water from her shower. Logically, she knows she can’t see the individual tears, but as they go down the drain with the rest of the water she can’t help but feel it’s a metaphor.

A really shitty metaphor.

This is her new routine, wake up, check her phone, cry in the shower, head to work, and spend every waking moment reliving that night until she falls back asleep from utter exhaustion. Her friends don’t even know they broke up– if they did Emma surely would have more than spam emails to delete each morning. Killian must be leaving that up to her; she broke it, it’s only fair she has to pick up the pieces.

Sometimes the anger sets in. He promised he wouldn’t walk out, he said he’d be there, he promised it was them against the world— maybe doubting a promise is the easiest way to break it.

Emma walks into the kitchen to grab some coffee before heading into the center– their center. When she started at the Boston Youth Community Center, she didn’t intend to fall in love with the cheeky, handsome outdoor rec coordinator. She also didn’t intend on them working together so well that, when Marco retired, they were an obvious fit for co-directors.

That seemed like a good idea at the time.

He took the first week off, but then moved offices without so much as a word to her. He’s now on the main floor with the kids instead of the office level next to her. Killian swore to the board it was to be more involved but Emma knows it was the furthest away he could get from her without quitting.

Killian isn’t a quitter.

Emma apparently is.

Unlocking her office door, his absence is felt just as much as the empty space in her bed. The office is littered with their memories, work and otherwise. She hasn't been able to bring herself to take down the picture frames– the action feeling too finite. It’d be the next step in making all of this real. At best, she’s been able to put one face down for a few hours before she misses his artificial presence and sets it upright again.

The picture next to her computer is of the day he proposed. Just them on the couch watching The Office when (in his words) the need to propose just came over him– he’d had the ring for months. Emma’s never agreed to something so quick– any and all hesitation completely trumped by overwhelming joy at being chosen by someone forever.

Now, it’s four months later and the stress of wedding planning and the reality of what forever actually means all bombarded her one day and she snapped.

Three weeks, four days, and fourteen hours ago.

She wonders to herself if Killian already packed all these memories away. He moved offices, and she supposes it’d be weird for him to put their photos back up…

Emma jumps at a knock on her door and quickly composes herself before rushing to answer it, “Sorry, yes, coming!” She wipes a stray tear from her cheek and turns the handle. She didn’t expect to find him standing there, “Killian?”

He looks just as awful as she does– and that’s saying something because handsome is an understatement when it comes to Killian. While Emma expected that to be comforting, it only makes her feel worse. They’ve always fed off one another, their codependency one of the few that even Mary Margaret, a trained psychiatrist, called healthy. Neither of them grew up with anyone they could depend on, not long enough to form any sort of healthy connection– not until each other.

“May I come in, please?” His voice startles her. After being alone with only the memory of it, she realizes it’s much more beautiful in person. She knew she missed it, but she didn’t realize how much.

Killian raises an eyebrow, something playful she didn’t expect, before walking into the office without the permission he asked for. He beelines for the photo on her desk, the one that caused her tears only moments before. He pauses for a moment before turning towards her, “You still have them up.”

The shocked tone of his voice feels like a dagger to her chest, the fact he thought she’d be able to move past them so quickly. “Uh, yeah. I–”

She’s not good with words so she leaves it at that. There are so many things she wants to say, apologies and explanations and confessions of love. For three weeks, four days, fourteen hours, and nine minutes she’s been rehearsing everything she should have said but the minute she’s presented with the opportunity she freezes.

Emma watches as he traces his thumb over the picture of them before she glances towards his eyes. He’s been crying, maybe not this minute but she knows that hint of red at the corner of his eye– the anniversary of Liam’s death hitting him harder each year that passes. At 34 this year, he officially turned a year older than his brother and there’s something about that fact which made everything monumentally harder and caused that flash of red to remain there for weeks. She swore to herself she’d never cause him that kind of pain.

More empty promises.

He glances over at her and Emma realizes she has no concept for how long they’ve been standing there or at what point she started to cry. A soft gasp escapes him when she bats a tear away with her left hand, “You’re still wearing your ring.”

He doesn’t question it, just states it like a fact he can’t believe.

“Because, more than anything, I’m still yours.” Emma isn’t sure where it came from, eloquent confessions of feelings and emotions typically reserved for Killian. She stumbles on the follow up, “If you— could you still want me… I mean–”

He stands there taking her in for what feels like an eternity. The regret and guilt Emma’s built up in her chest for three weeks threatening to escape through her tear ducts if she has to wait for his answer much longer.

She doesn’t.

Before she can turn away, he’s wrapping her in a deep kiss. A weight lifts and it feels like every light in the world turns on the moment they connect once more. Emma knows this isn’t a fix all, that after the initial high of being together again, there’s going to be long talks, and tearful battles, but if the last three weeks, four days, fourteen hours, and who the hell knows how many minutes have taught her anything, it’s that any life with Killian is better than even a day without him. They break from the kiss and Killian leaves another on her forehead. His hand absentmindedly finds hers and begins to play with the intricate diamond band on her finger.

“Killian, I–” He kisses her again, stopping her apology. She closes her eyes, willing the tears of relief to stay put as she leans into his prosthetic when he brushes some fallen hair from her face. As she feels his body shift in front of her, she opens her eyes to find him looking straight back at her.

“I know, Swan. Me too. But not here, alright? We’ll have plenty of time to talk, so for now I’d like to enjoy holding my fiance for the first time in three weeks.”

She loves when he calls her Swan.

Killian pulls her in for a tight hug and Emma’s auto-calculator seems to speak for her, “Three weeks, ten days, fourteen hours and–”

“And too many minutes, love.” He laughs as he finishes her sentence and Emma chokes out a giggle through her tears. She feels foolish for ever doubting that when Killian promised forever that he hadn’t thought of the implications– that he was anything like the people who left scars on her through her entire life.

They end up getting married the next day, a private celebration meant solely for them. It was Emma’s idea, her way of proving to Killian that she wasn’t going to run again. At first he was wary, big rash decisions not typically in his wheelhouse, but when she put on the wedding dress she’d picked out with Mary Margaret months before he’d even proposed, she saw a sort of understanding shift into his gaze. This is something they’ve both wanted for longer than they’ve been letting on— both too scared to make the move, to risk getting hurt again. Killian makes an appointment at the courthouse and they pay the extra $12 for a random witness from the courthouse staff. Afterwards, they met their friends at the bar like they do every Friday evening.

It only took one hour and thirty-three minutes for Mary Margaret to notice the ring on Killian’s right hand and another twelve minutes for her to convince them they needed to throw a big celebration.

Emma breathes a sigh of relief that night when she hears Killian’s soft breathing beside her for the second time in– well, too long. There’s such a fine line between want and need. For both of them, it just took a harsh reminder that when you realize want and need are one in the same, you better fight for it.

[samsflannel]

So I ran a poll on my twitter asking this: If the car crash at the end of season 1 never happened, and John never died, would he have killed Sam in season 4 once he started drinking demon blood? And the answer that won: Yes.

So, I decided to write a ficlet about it. Read under the cut.

You can also read on Ao3.

AU: John lives to see Sam drink demon blood and go “darkside.”

“This is what I warned you about, kid.” The gun in John’s shaking hands is cocked. Fully loaded. Safety off. Pointed at-

The plastic gas station bag Dean was holding drops onto the floor past the threshold of the cabin door, and one of the water bottles rolls under the worn, wood table. 

“What the fuck,” he says. Not a question. Sam’s asleep. Dead asleep on top of the sheets, book open across his chest and one of his stupid health nut breakfast bars unwrapped next to his hand. “What are you doing. Where have you been?” he whispers, hand itching for his gun.

“I told you, Dean,” John says, serious as all hell, gritting his teeth, sweat dripping down his temple. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Dean insists, but it shivers down his spine, makes his arms go cold. Sam stirs in his sleep and Dean’s feet ache toward the open door. “Let’s just go outside for a minute, talk about it before Sammy wakes up and sees that piece pointed at him.”

John takes a minute, his shoulders dropping, a sigh pushed out of his chest, but he lowers the gun and clicks the safety on, stuffs it in the back of his pants. Jerks his head toward the door, c’mon, then.

Christo, Dean whispers when he closes the door behind them- but John doesn’t react.

“Dad, what the hell,” he shouts once they make their way around to the side of the cabin, leaves crunching under their boots. “Where the hell have you been for the last year? I’ve been looking, asking other hunters-  how the fuck did you even find us out here?”

“One question at a time.” he presses the bridge of his nose between his fingers, breathing hard. 

“I’ll ask as many questions as I want,” Dean pushes, stepping forward, anger blooming up in his belly suddenly. “You show up out of nowhere when we haven’t seen you in over a year and you’re pointing a gun at my brother.”

John looks up at him. The circles under his eyes are dark and heavy- he looks different. “Your brother isn’t your brother, Dean. Not anymore.” He licks his lips, lowers his voice. “I heard things from other hunters. Disgusting things, evil things. And I thought- no.” He shakes his head, toes the dirt. “It can’t be. So I tracked you two down. Watched him. And I saw-”

He looks like he’s going to vomit, nostrils flaring, closing his eyes. “I saw what Sam did to that demon. Sucked it dry. I saw the blood on his face, Dean, he looked-” he pauses. Breathes and makes eye contact. “He’s not human anymore.”

“You’re wrong.” Dean shocks himself with how desperate his voice sounds. His hands tingle, his palms start to sweat- “I mean, you saw wrong. Sam would never-”

“Bullshit.” John cuts him off loud, and some visceral part of Dean flinches. “Don’t lie to me, Dean. You know. And I know that you know, so let’s skip that.”

Dean stills. Looks back and forth between his father’s eyes, pleading. But not denying. And then- hurt, face hardening. “So that’s why you came here? To waste your own son? And in his sleep, too, you don’t even have the sack to-”

“First of all, you don’t talk to me that way, I am your father.” He says it matter-of-fact, like it’s enough of an explanation. John gets in his space, toe-to-toe, middle finger pointed at his chest. “Get your head on straight. I told you two years ago what would happen if you didn’t control the situation and here we are with Sam chugging demon blood like it’s water.”

“I was dead.” Dean looks him right in the eyes, leaned up on his feet, eyes wide. “Not sure if you remember, but I was in hell. For months. And you let Sam walk. Knowing how broken he was, knowing he would have done anything-”

“You never should have made that deal, Dean. It was stupid and reckless and suicidal. But you made that choice. And Sam made his.”

Dean sits back on his heels, mouth tight. Shaking his head. “What was I supposed to do.” He searches John’s face. “Let Sam rot? You don’t understand. You don’t even know how much I couldn’t do that.”

John nods, solemn. “I get that, son. I do. But it would’ve been a helluva lot better than what I’m gonna have to do now.”

Flames lick Dean’s insides, his shoulders squaring up again. “You’re not gonna do shit. Look, dad, I’ve seen it too. I know it’s bad, but Sam, he-” he searches for the right words, but comes up blank. Huffs. “We’re gonna fix it. He’s gonna be okay.”

“It’s gone too far already,” John insists, almost shouting. “Sam’s gone. That kid you know, he’s so far off the reservation he’s hit the dead end, and there ain’t no turnarounds. You get that, right?”

“No, I actually don’t,” Dean spits, scrubbing his face, then slapping his hands down on his pockets. Shrugs. “He’s still Sam.”

John stops, then. Shakes his head a little, smiling, looks at his feet. “God,” he says. “Yeah.”

Dean furrows his eyebrows. “What?”

John shakes his head again. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. You two-” he stops himself, like he doesn’t want to finish the sentence. He meets Dean’s eyes again. “Just let me handle this, kid. It’s not gonna be any easier for me, but we can’t let him hurt anyone.”

“Dad, why do you think we came all the way out to this bumfuck nowhere cabin?” Dean spreads his arms out. “There’s no one here for Sam to hurt. No blood for him to drink, no demons, no nothing.”

John pulls his gun from his pants. “You know, I heard other things from those hunters. Things about you and your brother that I don’t-” gun at his hip, he bites at his mouth, looks at the ground. 

Dean swallows hard. Blood rushing all through his chest, climbing up his throat under his skin. “That’s not-”

“Don’t,” John says, final. “Just. Just don’t. I can’t.”

They both take an awkward pause. The knife in Dean’s jeans is burning a hole in his back pocket. 

He nods his head toward John’s hip. “Put the gun away, dad. You’re not going to kill Sam, alright? We’ll figure this out.”

“I’ve got it figured out already. Stay out here, you don’t have to watch it happen. We’ll give him a hunter’s funeral-”

Dean brings his foot up and kicks the glock out of John’s hand, flicks his knife open. Jams it right up against John’s throat. 

He takes a shaky breath. “I can’t let you do that,” he says, almost a whisper. He presses the blade flat, not trying to cut him- not yet. “Walk away.”

John’s face remains stone-serious, cold as hell. “I’m not gonna hurt you, son. You’re not the one who needs to be stopped.” He glances down at Dean’s arm, held steady at his neck. “So you go ahead and do what you need to do, but just know that you’re making the wrong choice letting evil run free.”

“Not everything is as black and white as you want it to be.” Dean swallows again, heart somewhere down in his belly. “Maybe- you know, maybe I used to think like that too. Good or bad. That black, dividing line between us and them.”

“This is as clear-cut as they come, Dean-”

“You’re wrong.” Tears creep up in Dean’s eyes, his nose burning, and he blinks them back, tries to fucking focus. “Sam is-” he tries to think of the right words. He’s never been good with words, with expression. That was always Sam’s wheelhouse.

He settles on: “Sam isn’t evil.” He focuses on the blade, not able to look John in the face for some reason. “The thing inside of him is evil. But he’s kind and smart and a helluva lot stronger than you or me. But I guess you never wanted to see that.”

John sighs. Doesn’t respond. Fear is catching in Dean’s throat, strumming across his spine. 

“Is there any chance I can talk you out of this?” Dean’s lip quivers, tears stinging his eyes again.

John gives him a look that’s almost sympathetic. Then- understanding. Or acceptance. Dean’s not sure. 

He tilts his head back a little. “I’m afraid not, kid.” He says it quietly. Soft. “I’m sorry.”

Dean nods. “Then I’m sorry, too.”

The blade cuts clean, sharp, but John still gurgles on his own blood, hitting his knees hard, leaves crunching under him- and the blood, God, there’s so much, spitting from his throat in rivers, and Dean steps back so it won’t splatter. 

Fuck, Dean thinks. Fuck. John stops struggling, twitching after what feels like an hour but is really only seconds. And Dean falls to his knees, too, pukes right there in the grass, hands burning with how hard he grips the ground.

He sits there for a while. It’s so quiet. The air tastes like copper. The sun begins to set, heavy and warm over the forest around him.

And then he pushes himself up. Drags John by the boots as far as his legs will carry him- tomorrow, he’ll get a shovel. Do right by his old man.

Sam’s still asleep when he comes back in, turned over on his side with the book thrown across the floor. Dean toes his shoes off, lets his jacket hit the wood floor. 

He tucks himself up behind Sam, nose pressed into his back, takes a huge breath. Tries to get his hands to quit shaking.

“Dean?” Sam tilts his head back a little, stretching his legs out. “You alright?” He slurs. “Didja go to the store?”

Dean nods, eyes wide open. He pulls away from Sam, then- lays on his back so Sam won’t think something’s up. “Yeah, Sammy, I did. Got that Campbell’s soup you like.”

“Nice,” Sam says, yawns. Dean’s chest feels like there’s a gaping hole, unfurling at the edges. “Sorry for falling asleep. You want me to go get some firewood for the-”

“No,” Dean says, a little too fast. Sam turns over, eyebrow raised. “I mean, uh- no. It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.” He smiles at him, the way he does when he’s about to say some stupid shit. “You need to catch up on your rest, princess, don’t let me stop you-”

Sam tries to whack him with his pillow, but Dean catches it before he can. “Dick,” Sam says. 

Later, when Dean gets up to grab wood for the firepit so they can cook dinner, Sam says: “Hey.” He’s watching The Goonies on the shitty, box TV they managed to get working. 

“Is for horses,” Dean retorts, easy, distracted with his boot laces. 

Sam does that bitchy little sigh he does when he’s annoyed or trying to say something. “Seriously. Dean, I-” 

Dean looks over at him.

“Thank you. For everything. That you do for me, I mean. For us.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Don’t get too mushy about it.”

When he gets outside, he walks faster and faster until he’s running, cold air biting the tips of his ears until he falls at the foot of the forest and heaves, nothing left to lose from his stomach.

[allsassnoclass]

The Inherent Domesticity of Target’s Home Decor Section

Pairing: Michael Clifford/Calum Hood Rating: Teen Word Count: 2076 Read on AO3

Michael has mixed feelings about Target.  On one hand, Target is better than Walmart, and he appreciates that they get to design different album covers and sell special editions there.  On the other hand, walking into Target makes him feel like he should have his life together more.  That’s not to say that his life is a disaster; his life is actually pretty great, and he feels like a fully functioning adult.  However, the store still gives him the niggling feeling that he should buy a planner and some post-it notes and turn into a suburban mom.

“Do you think I should buy a planner?” he asks.  Calum hums, reading the back of a DVD that’s on sale for $5.  When he shifts to put it back on the shelf, Michael shifts right with him, arms around his stomach and cheek plastered against his shoulder.  It’s earlier in the morning than Michael would like, so Calum gets the privilege of holding him up as punishment for dragging him out into the world at this time of day.

“Why do you need a planner?  Ashton takes care of that stuff for the band,” Calum says.  He picks up another DVD and flips it over.

“Yeah, but maybe I should put down everyone’s birthday or something,” he says.  Calum snorts and Michael pinches his side, because he’s apologized for forgetting his birthday that one time sincerely and profusely and gave Calum a pretty spectacular blowjob to make up for it.

“Would you even use it?” Calum asks.  Michael considers and has to concede his point.

They look at DVDs for a few more minutes because Calum gets a kick out of what a place like Target choses to stock in their meger selection.  Michael lets him slip some animated thing he thinks he watched once as a kid into the basket, content to stand there while Calum takes his time and just breathe him in.  He loves being close to Calum, letting his familiar smell fill his nostrils and leeching body heat.  He lets their breathing sync up and imagines that he can hear his heartbeat, slow and steady and almost putting him to sleep standing up.

Nowhere feels like home quite like Calum does.  Even in the middle of Target, Michael feels better than he ever has alone in his house.  It makes him wonder why he’s even living alone, and why Calum pulled away and they stopped messing around when neither of them have girlfriends.

The bottom line is that he misses Calum nearly every moment they’re apart, but he doesn’t know how to articulate this without the crushing fear of rejection.  Calum loves him, and he knows that a significant part of Calum’s world revolves around Michael, but that doesn’t mean they necessarily love each other in the same way.  Michael wants grocery shopping and kisses and late night cuddles regardless of if they have somewhere to be in the morning and lazy sex and laughing at each other’s ridiculousness so hard that he can’t breathe.  Calum wants a platonic best friend.

“What else do we still need to get?” Calum asks, shaking Michael out of his reverie.

“Toothpaste, I think.  And vitamins.”

“Look at you, being healthy and shit.”

Michael pokes his side and Calum tries to wriggle away, giggling because Michael knows exactly which spot tickles the most.

“Just because I don’t let Ashton drag me to yoga like you do doesn’t mean I’m unhealthy.  I get the most sleep out of any of us and I drink a fuckton of water.”

“I know, I know,” Calum says.  “Want to check the CDs?”

It’s a distraction tactic, because Michael will always check the one-shelf CD selection, especially so soon after one of their own releases.  Michael makes the conscious decision to allow himself to be distracted.

“Okay.  CDs, then toothpaste, then vitamins, then I want to look at the home decor.”

“What do you want to look at the home decor for?”

Michael shrugs, knowing that Calum can feel it.  There’s just no non-incriminating way to say I like to see your reactions and pretend that we’re picking out stuff for our house because I might be fully in love with you and I want you in every single crevice of my life.

That’s the issue with Target: it makes him feel domestic and long for things he can’t have.

“Excuse me?” a new voice says, and Michael first feels a twinge of annoyance at someone interrupting his moment and then a twinge of panic that it could be a fan when he definitely doesn’t have the emotional or physical energy to put on a public persona.  One look at the owner of the voice dispels that notion.  The woman is on the later side of middle-aged and looks pretty much exactly like the kind of woman who cooks meatloaf and has 3 cats and actually does go to Target to buy planners.  As inclusive as the band tries to make their music, Michael can admit that she’s not exactly in their immediate wheelhouse for fans.  Nevertheless, he straightens up a bit, but the woman is smiling so he thinks he can maybe get away with still locking his arms around Calum’s waist.

“Sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to say that you boys make such a cute couple!  It’s so nice to see young people in love.”

Michael stiffens, but Calum puts a hand on his arm, effectively anchoring him in place before he can pull away.

“Thank you.  It’s nice to be in love,” Calum says, and Michael’s breath stutters in his throat.

The woman beams and for a moment Michael thinks she’s going to reach out and pinch Calum’s cheeks, but she just bids them a good day and continues towards the books.

“CDs?” Calum asks, casual as anything.  Michael nods and fully pulls away, not trusting himself to speak or to touch.

It was just a nice thing to say to a romantic woman, but it’s nice to be in love plays on repeat in his head like a broken record.  He knows, he knows that it doesn’t mean anything, but Michael would give almost anything to have it be the truth.

There are five copies of the Target exclusive edition of CALM on the shelf.  There’s also a Neil Diamond greatest hits collection and a few random soundtracks that Calum points out, but Michael can barely focus.  He kind of wants to skip the toothpaste and go straight home, but he also doesn’t want Calum to question why that small interaction with the woman threw him so off kilter.  By the time they make it through the checkout and back to Michael’s car, he feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin.

Calum waits until they’re out of the parking lot to start talking.

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable earlier.  That wasn’t my intention.  I just figured that was the easiest response.  I know we’re not--I know we don’t do that anymore.”

In a different world where Michael hasn’t kept a very tight lid on his feelings for his best friend for the past eight years, he would have crashed the car.

“I know,” he says instead.  Silence fills the space, heavy and uncomfortable.  Michael keeps his eyes resolutely on the road and tries not to read too much into how Calum keeps taking a breath as if he wants to talk before cutting himself off.

“And I understand,” Calum says suddenly, almost causing Michael to swerve.  “I understand why we’re not together anymore.”

“What,” Michael says.

“I’m not trying to get you back, or whatever.  I know you don’t think of me like that.”

“That I don’t--” Michael chokes.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“Come on, don’t make me say it,” Calum says, shifting in his seat.

“No, hang on.  I don’t understand what you’re saying to me right now.”

“Mike, stop it.  Now you’re just being mean.”

“Calum, you’re the one who pulled away from me.  Personally, I don’t understand why we’re not together anymore.  I didn’t even know that we were!”

“That’s bullshit!  What did you think we were, if not together?”

“I don’t know, fucking around?  I thought we stopped because you got bored of me.”

“Michael, we stopped because we got asked about ships in an interview and you got really weird about it.”

“Yeah, because I’ve been in love with you for half my life!”

Silence descends, and Michael absolutely cannot look at Calum right now.  The only things that exist are the steering wheel in his grip and the strip of road in front of him.  There’s still a good ten minutes until he reaches his house, and Michael is very content to spend those ten minutes pretending like he is alone and has not just revealed his biggest secret during an argument that he still doesn’t quite understand.

“Pull over.”

No such luck, apparently.

“Michael, pull over right now.”

He eases over and puts the car in park, letting his hands fall into his lap.

“You’re in love with me?” Calum asks.  Michael nods.  “We’re so stupid.”

“What?” Michael asks, finally looking over at Calum.  He doesn’t look uncomfortable or sad, he looks exasperated.  Michael isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean.

“We’re idiots.  We could’ve been happily dating this whole time.  Hell, we probably could’ve been married by now,” Calum says.  “I’m in love with you, too.”

Michael blinks at him and really wishes his brain was operating a bit faster.

“Calum,” he says, for lack of anything else.

“Michael,” Calum grins right back.

“Are you serious?” he asks.  Calum rolls his eyes.

“Why would I joke about this?”

Michael shrugs helplessly.

“Michael,” Calum says seriously.  “I made you park the car.  We just had a conversation that obviously made you uncomfortable.  Why the fuck would I be joking right now?”

Michael shrugs helplessly again.

“You love me?” he asks.  Calum reaches over and grabs one of his hands.

“I’m head over heels, crazy in love with you.  It’s pathetic.  It’s ridiculous.  I want to jump you in this car right now.”

Michael laughs.

“Not in broad daylight,” he says.  Calum smiles in a way that makes something settle in Michael’s stomach, something that he hadn’t realized had been unsettled ever since they stopped seeing each other.

Fuck.  He’s so lucky.

“I’m in love with you, too,” he says.  Calum’s smile widens.

“I know,” he says.  “You just told me that.”

“Well, I wanted to tell you again.”

“Well, I’m in love with you, too.”

They’re talking in circles now--wonderful, love-sick circles--and Michael is thankful for multiple reasons when Calum breaks it by leaning over the center console to kiss him.  Calum’s lips are familiar under his, and even after months without feeling them Michael has them memorized.  This kiss feels different, though.  There’s a surety to it that they haven’t had before, a question and agreement that thrills him.

“You’re sure you don’t want to roll around in the back seat right now?” Calum asks softly when they part.  Michael grins and knocks their foreheads together.

“You’re funny,” he says.  “Ha, ha.”

Calum kisses him again.  Michael could definitely get used to this.  If their previous conversation is any indication, he’ll have plenty of time and opportunity to get used to this.

This time when the kiss breaks, Calum fully leans back rather than keep breathing his air.

“Okay,” he says.  “Let’s go home, Michael.  We’ve got years of a honeymoon phase to catch up on.”

Michael puts the car in drive and eases back onto the road.  They’ll have time to drive around again later, because Michael definitely wants to do another circuit of the Target home decor section with this new revelation.  Maybe he’ll try to find a card for the woman who confused them for a couple, just in case they happen to run into her by the post-it notes or planners.

Either way, Michael thinks that Target might be his favorite store now.  He glances at Calum to find him already looking at him and his chest warms.

Yeah, Target is definitely his favorite store, but he’d be okay with never setting foot in it again if it meant he could keep spending time with his favorite person.

Thankfully, the way that Calum leans over to kiss him at a red light seems to mean that he agrees.

[builder051]

The talk

Chasing Ghosts

(I generally do not play in this arena; DO NOT ask for other stories with PMS, etc., as illness features. I do loosely plan to continue this thread, though. Or @mohini-musing might pick up for me.)

Warnings: weight (though not ED context), SA inc. prostitution, blood, emeto

____________________________

Tasha comes down the hall and stands like a ghost behind the sofa.

James is in the recliner across the living room, and he barely looks up from the textbook he's pretending to peruse. The quiet music he's had playing in one ear has long since captured his attention more than the multiplication of matrices. He's fairly sure he'll never use the skill lest he become a software engineer post-graduation, and the prospect of that's looking pretty slim.

He sees Tasha out of his peripheral vision, but doesn't move his head or lift his eyes for acknowledgment. She's probably drifted down from her weekend high, realized it's Sunday night, and gotten up for a Gatorade and maybe a glance at her homework.

Steve, though, who's lying on his stomach and taking up the whole of the couch, practically jumps to attention. He stands, scoots, and sits again in the amount of time it takes James to blink and make the first inhalation of a laugh.

"Sorry," Steve says, as if he's personally offended Tasha and just been called out. "I didn't mean... I was just, like, studying..."

Tasha shrugs. "Didn't come to sit with you," she says, in a voice that recalls the 'boys are gross' tone of young teenagerhood.

"What's up, then?" James asks, trying to bring back the balance of the room's atmosphere.

Tasha makes an ugly face. She opens her mouth, then shuts it. "Can I talk to you alone?"

James scoffs. "You think there's privacy in this apartment?"

"I can go, I don't know--" Steve looks around.

"Just talk," James says. He almost rolls his eyes, but the undercurrent of Tasha's affect seems to hold an air of seriousness. If there's something she needs to confess or ask for help with, he doesn't want her to feel less than secure.

Tasha lets out a breathy sort of sigh. "Blood," she says. "There's blood."

"Huh?" Steve responds first. "Where?"

James takes a little longer to contemplate the admission. Has she cut herself? There's no visible damage; Tasha's not holding an injury or howling in pain. Bloody vomit? That's nothing new, really, and even with vampire-red teeth, which she doesn't have, Tasha probably wouldn't come crying to him.

James is still thinking when Tasha points vaguely down the hall and to the left, which is, technically speaking, her side of the apartment. Or at least the bedroom and bathroom they'd parceled out for her when they'd unofficially moved her out of her dreary campus housing.

"What, in your room?" Steve asks.

"No." Tasha screws up her eyes. "I mean... I'm bleeding."

The cogs continue to turn in James's head, and just as he lands on an answer, Steve gives up, shaking his head and saying, "I don't get it."

"Fuck you," Tasha mumbles. "Both of you." She turns and starts to head back down the hallway.

"Tash." James jumps to his feet, his algebra book falling to the floor.

"You guys are fucking gay..."

"Hey!" Steve interjects.

James flaps his hand at Steve to shut him up. "Maybe we're gay, but I'm your big brother." He shoots a quick glance at Steve, hoping this won't surpass his no privacy promise. They've done some pretty wild stuff together: partying, puking, cleaning the carpet... Period talk shouldn't be too far out of their wheelhouse. At least, not if Tasha wants to talk about it.

Tasha huffs and rounds the edge of the sofa. She stands beside the arm, leaning her hip against it for a moment, before finally deciding to sit down, as far away from Steve as possible.

"I..." James starts, assuming it's his responsibility to keep the conversation going. "I assumed you hadn't been, um. You know."

Tasha's 100 pounds soaking wet. In her usual cutoff shorts and tank tops, he'd give her 95. Maybe 92 if she's detoxing. James assumes she has something like female athlete triad going on, except without the athlete. He doesn't like to think she's just too skinny to go through... normal biological processes. If he blames the drugs, sees them as wrecking her body instead of bringing her solace, then he'll have to turn eyes on himself, and there's no way in hell he wants to do that.

"Smart one," Tasha says. "And exactly how much thought do you give to the functioning of my uterus?"

Steve gives an 'oh shit' face, looking from James to Tasha and back again as if wondering how he's been so thick headed. James agrees, but is also relieved, in a way, that his boyfriend hasn't been thinking about his sister in, well, that way.

"Seeing as I have, more than once, pulled you out of an R-rated situation with iffy consent, and you have yet to become pregnant--" James starts.

"Yeah, ok, you don't have to..." Tasha shakes her head.

James decides not to stop his momentum. "Do you know how much sex you're having? How often you're using protection?"

"I said, you don't have to." Tasha glares at him. "I don't have one. A cycle, or whatever. I can't get knocked up."

"Well, I figured that, but you can still get an STD--

"I don't think you're hearing me," Tasha says. "I don't have one. I haven't. Like, ever."

"But--what?" James squints and cocks his head. "What about, what was it? Cheerleading camp?"

"That stupid summer program when I was 16?" Tasha bites her lip. "Yeah, that was a lie."

"You're losing me." Steve reminds them he's part of the conversation as well.

"What, didn't your mom send you to cheerleading camp when you were a sullen teen?" Tasha asks him, seemingly in all seriousness.

"Um. No." Steve withers a little under her stare. "There was a threat to beat it out of me with a bible when I was that age, but that never came to fruition."

"Mm. Fun times." Tasha scrubs her hair back from her face. "I told mom of the moment I started at camp, so then she couldn't go nuts about the moment I 'became a woman,' or whatever."

Tasha has always seemed like a little kid to James. Her stint at camp had only taken place... he quickly calculates... 3ish years ago. Tasha is a kid. She hasn't busted 20 years old yet. But, for the first time James wonders if other, more metaphorical factors are at play.

The idea quickly fades, though, when he remembers the actual topic at hand. "Ok, but Tash," James says. "What's actually going on right now?"

Tasha practically sinks into the couch cushions. She wraps both arms around her abdomen. "Blood," she says. "Kinda...everywhere."

"We'll clean the bathroom later," James says dismissively.

"And I'll do laundry," Steve offers. "I used to be the scrawny kid who got beat up a lot. I can do bloodstains."

"Not helping, babe," James tells him before Tasha can get a word in.

"Feel sick," Tasha admits, rather suddenly.

"Bathroom it is, then," James decides. "But, let's use mine."

Tasha seems to have turned into a shapeless blob on the corner of the couch, her chest meeting her thighs with her arms still wrapped around her stomach. Her face is in her knees, which James has to admit, would be easier to clean than the carpet.

"Come on," he says gently, taking Tasha's shoulder. "If you're gonna puke, don't do it here, please."

"But I already diiiiid," Tasha complains, drawing out the last word and adding the hiccup of a fake crying fit.

"Sorry." James hooks his flesh arm across Tasha's chest and lets her cling to him down the hall. He takes her into his and Steve's disorganized yet bleach-shined bathroom. Cleaning was practically Steve's hobby. Yet keeping down the clutter? Not his strong suit.

Unsure of exactly what kind of sick his sister intends to be, he sets her down, fully clothed, on the toilet, which, of course, has the seat up. Then he dives for the trash can and shoves it into Tasha's chest.

She gives James an appreciative glare, then sets her chin on the edge of the trash can, ostensibly to wait for an upcoming retch. James can practically see it, rising from the bottom of her spine, up her back, to her neck and throat before finally pushing a pitiful amount of spit and bile out of her mouth.

"Ok..." James sighs. If she's down to just that, she's been at it a while. Lost a lot of fluids already.

"Gatorade?" Steve asks in a chipper tone, putting voice to what James is thinking without a trace of delicacy.

"Hmph." Tasha spits. "If it'll... make it stop burning..."

"Lemme guess, vodka last night?" James tries to make her laugh. Maybe cough.

"Fuck you."

"Eh, we'll talk about that later," James says, hoping he doesn't sound threatening. "For now, how about I go with you?" James pulls on Steve's arm and heads for the bathroom door.

"Hey, you said no privacy here..." Tasha's irritated and sickly voice trails after them.

"Yeah, well, puking people aren't allowed to leave the bathroom," James says. "That's the house rule that trumps all the others."

"But I puke on the couch all the time--"

"That's because it's too hard to get your fucking limp-ass octopus body into the bathroom in the first place." James rolls his eyes. "Just sit tight."

He quickly drags Steve into the kitchen. "Ok," he says. "You have to know about this stuff. You took health class in high school, right?"

"I've lived with a woman," Steve reminds James, a little shamefully. "But Peggy was super private. You know, like inhibited, about, like, um..."

"Yeah, I get it." James shrugs. Then, "Did you know you can stem a nosebleed with a tampon?"

"Why would I?"

"I don't know..." James shakes his head.

"Why do you?" Steve looks a little take aback now.

"The field. Desert air's pretty damn dry."

"Ah. Ok."

"We'd get donations of shit from the states. Care packages, Costco overstock, you know. Just, whatever. When we got pads and stuff, whoever was unloading the box would just hold them over their head and yell 'who needs them?'"

"And I'm assuming people would just raise their hands?" Steve postulates.

"Yup." James pops the P. "No privacy. Everyone knows everyone else's bathroom habits. When you're deep in the field, there's no men's and women's facilities. Half the time the privies don't even have doors."

"Ok." Steve nods. "Experience, then. You have lots of experience."

James shrugs again. "You have to be chill, ok?" He opens the fridge and pulls out two bottles of Gatorade. He holds one to either side of Steve's neck, as if to physically cool him. "This is, like, super weird and awkward for her. She's really scared, I think, and her brave face just looks...jerk-ish."

"Yeah." Steve takes the Gatorade. "I can be good with this. I really care about her, even if she doesn't think I do."

"I know you do," James says. "It's all in the presentation right now, though. She's skittish. But, also, for some reason, willing to talk. We have to tease it out. And you can't ruin it, ok?"

"Ok, ok." Steve seems to understand, even if he doesn't appreciate the words.

They head back to the bathroom, where Tasha has, for whatever reason, decided to heave into the toilet instead of the trash. She squats awkwardly, sitting on one heel. From the angle he's at, James can see a spreading stain on the back of Tasha's shorts, which has made an imprint on her ankle and the bottom of her foot.

"Don't move," James says, reaching for a towel.

"The fuck would I?" Tasha coughs, holding her stomach and moaning.

"Well, when you're done, stand up slowly and wipe your feet."

"...Shit..." Tasha spits. "Like I said. It's fucking everywhere."

"Yeah..." Menstrual blood, James has no experience with. But blood in general, yeah. It does get fucking everywhere. There's that first moment when the entire body and all its systems are still in shock, like when the arm is first blown off, and then all he can see is red. Even the bone that was white just a second ago is lost in a sea of scarlet--

"Well, I suppose congratulations are in order," Steve says with a grin, clearly trying to be friendly, but missing out on one, or more, of the points. "You're not pregnant."

"Well, of course I'm not, you dingbat," Tasha replies, rolling her eyes so hard that James is sure it must give her a headache. If she doesn't already have one. "And besides. He used a condom."

"Wait," James says. He's been preoccupied by not looking at Steve. "You know that?" he pokes cautiously. "For sure?"

"...Yeah..."

"Every time?"

"To be honest," Tasha starts, spitting and pushing herself away from the toilet. She crab-walks to the towel, wipes her feet, then sits on it, criss-cross like a little kid. "I don't know if he actually gets off every time." She draws her mouth into a straight, defensive line.

"The fuck does that have to do with anything?" James asks.

Steve looks very much like he wants to get the bleach from the cabinet under the sink, pour it into one ear, tip his head, and see if it comes out the other.

"He pulls out," Tasha says bluntly. "And there's never any, you know. Gunk."

"Wait, he does both?" Steve's eyebrows disappear into his hair. "A condom and--"

"Ok, ok." James puts up his hands to shush them both. "And this is, what, this is your dealer we're talking about?"

"Yeah, I guess, if you want to call him that," Tasha says with a shrug.

"What else would we call him?" Steve now looks disgusted. "That'd be stupid to let him just, like, defile you every week."

"He doesn't--" Tasha starts, but then she hiccups, and maybe thinks better of what she was going to say. She still stares Steve down, though, then looks to James as if grasping at straws of support.

"He's, like, a manufacturer?" Tasha turns her gaze sideways.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." James puts his hand over his face. He'd assumed Tasha was getting her stuff on the street, through a framework of various interlopers. Now he's getting news that his kid sister is taking substances thrown together in some coed's bathtub? This is too much.

"Tash--" James starts, trying hard to keep his bubbling anger and concern from spilling over.

"He's a PhD candidate," Tasha says defensively. In Chemistry. And--" her eyes flicker from side to side as she seems to wonder what's appropriate to spill. "I won't tell you his name. But... I'll tell you that he got kicked off the football team for being too violent, but he still wears his green jersey all the time to prove how much better and calmer he's become since that happened, which was only in the freshman year of his undergrad..." Tasha babbles on.

The more she defends the guy, the more James hates him. He feels bad for him a little, slinging synthesized crack to get by. He feels better for Tasha, knowing that what she's taking is most probably pure. But the sex thing is--

"It's kinda creepy," Steve says, taking the words right from James's mouth. "Like, how much older than you is he?"

"I don't know." Tasha shrugs. "Not that much, I don't think. Started school early, finished fast. And I'm not sure this is his first post-graduate program..."

"Maybe shouldn't've added that last part," James says, screwing up his eyes. "So he's had, like, however long to prey on girls who are barely legal. Who might not even be legal..."

"Well, I'm legal, and I can do what I want." Tasha crosses her arms in front of her chest.

"Yeah," James sighs. "Unfortunately."

"But what about the thing with the handcuffs? The gang rape? Losing your bra?" Steve blurts out.

"Wait, you..." Tasha's eyes flash with anger. "You told him?"

"What did I say about privacy?" James quickly reminds her. "The non-puking kind? And, um," He looks to Steve. "Maybe a little respect?"

"Sorry," Steve mutters. "But--I really do--"

"I don't really remember that stuff," Tasha says.

James studies her face, but he can't tell if she's lying.

"Probably just party stuff that got out of hand."

'You mean you were too stoned to know the difference between your regular and some random dude off the street,' James thinks. 'What do you do at parties? And how the fuck do you slip past me?'

"He's your pimp, too, isn't he?" Steve asks, pointing at Tasha rather accusatorially, in James's opinion.

"No!" Tasha leans forward and brings her arms down to cover her clearly still sore abdomen. "Bruce wouldn't--" She swallows. "I didn't-- You didn't hear--"

James hasn't been a student long enough to know who was on the football team 4, 5, 6-odd years ago. He supposes he could look it up, crossing the name with accounts of any violent incident that amount of time ago. He's not sure he wants to, though he'll probably wind up looking it up later. Either that, or Steve will. James still has his ex-mil connections, a few of which were absorbed into the local police force. Steve, on the other hand, is better with social media and navigating the niceties of such mysteries as SnapChat and TikTok.

"Ok, fine," James says, just ameliorate his sister's panic.

"He doesn't even drug me at parties," Tasha goes on, probably unaware of how terribly young and desperate she sounds, making lame-ass excuses so she can keep her boy toy.

"And you've had other guys who did?" Steve asks incredulously, even though James shakes his head frantically at him to try to get him to shut up.

"You know Rumlow?" Tasha asks, since apparently she's now all about spilling names.

James shakes his head, but Steve screws up his eyes and says in a disgusted voice, "him?"

"Yeah..." Tasha sighs and looks down at her fingernails, which are stained rust-red at the root. "Remember the night I didn't come home?"

"Yeah, and scared the living shit out of us because your phone was off," James fills in the blanks.

"Well, I didn't turn it off."

"You mean that asshole kept you overnight without any means of getting yourself out of there?" Steve looks downright sick. "I mean, I know he looks slimy, but that?"

"I think Maria accidentally slept on the couch and found me at, like, 6am trying to stick my head in the linen closet because I couldn't find the bathroom." Tasha laughs, though the situation is anything bur funny.

"And I was so pissed at her for having you out all night..." James trails off.

"Yeah, maybe respect my choices a little more?" Tasha glares at him. "I mean, Maria's studying to become an EMT now. You can't think that badly of her."

'Great,' James thinks. 'Someone who'll drug Tasha to the gills every weekend.' She'll be less likely to overdose, but James has seen it all too often in the field. Newly minted medical personnel eager to sow off their skills and rushing into action.

"Yeah," James says, trying not to smirk. "So you got a girlfriend and a boyfriend now?"

"Ew, no," Tasha replies. "Friends with...benefits, I guess. If you even want to call it that. Folks who look out for each other, using a barter system?"

"Did you recently take World History?" James can't help but poking at her vocabulary.

"Fucking-a, I don't know. Once I pass, it's in my past."

"That's actually a good motto," Steve points out.

"Anyway," James says, bringing the conversation back to topic. "None of your...friends... are invited to this house."

"It's not like I want to bring them over for dinner," Tasha replies. "I guess drop off and pickup might happen, since, well, you know now, and I don't have a car." She shrugs. "Cool?"

James hates the idea of someone inebriated driving a car in which his sister is a passenger, despite the fact that he's done it before. Regularly, actually. Maybe he just hates the idea of the driver being someone who Tasha just fucked. The air might be heavy between them. They might smell like each other's deodorant and musk. They might kiss each other good bye. The thought makes James's stomach turn.

But, "sure," he says. "That's fine.” At least she'll come home.

James shares a glance with Steve, which seems to confirm the same sentiments, "Yeah," Steve echoes, as if his opinion counts for anything. "Fine."

[devilsskettle]

not really related to my last post but it made me think of this: it’s really annoying to me when writers act like they don’t need to know anything about the genre that they’re writing like honestly if you think you can write good poetry without reading good poetry? i have serious doubts. if you think you can write fantasy without exposing yourself to a wide range of other people’s writing in that genre, your writing is going to suffer. you’re more likely to suffer from being trite first of all, but you’re also not going to know what works and what doesn’t in a particular genre, or even what you like or dislike about other people’s writing, and therefore what you want to pursue or avoid in your own. like i have a couple friends who are writers and i love them and think they’re very talented but when they try to write horror it is not good to be very honest. because they don’t like horror as a genre. so they have no idea what works for the kind of story they’re trying to write. sci-fi and fantasy? absolutely in their wheelhouse, they’re extremely good at writing in those genres. because they actually like those genres! and they have lots of experience with them. that’s not to say never go out of your comfort zone and never experiment but like ursula le guin talks about in that one essay about genre fiction, people who don’t take genre fiction (including horror) seriously enough to actually study it and analyze it and think about it like any other kind of literature won’t be familiar enough with it to actually be able to do shit with it, like if you’re writing without any knowledge of the genre you’re writing in, you have to reinvent all the tropes and conventions of the genre like you’re making it up yourself even though they’re already established and will already be trite if you try to write like that. like i’m sorry but if you’re writing horror and you’ve never read like clive barker or shirley jackson or hell, even mary shelley or bram stoker? even some stephen king? that’s kind of basic fundamental shit you know? i mean my reading list isn’t necessarily THE reading list but like read the kind of shit you want to write you know it will make you a better writer, why do people think they’re above that like their ideas just have to be SO unique because they’re special or something when they don’t realize similar stories already exist and they’re just making everything harder for themselves trying to invent the wheel when the foundations have already been laid for them

[wajjs]

Jason is hurt or have a panick attack and one of his brother, or all the brother, or bruce, or slade, is here to help him, hurt/comfort and fluff please!

This one is weak on the fluff front mostly because fluff refused to cooperate with me, sorry! (I also didn't have the time to proofread this one 😔)

Prodigal Son

It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one.

-

  From where he stands, he stifles a laugh because he's sure as hell no one is gonna make it in time. And that's the thing with him, that's the truth to his story: he's always been a bastard to the clock ticking away the minutes, the seconds, till it's time to go boom. Still following the branches of truth, he's not standing. He couldn't be so even if he were to try, not with an exposed fracture in the shin and a knife stuck deep inside his thigh.

  He doesn't even move, not an inch or centimeter, in the chair he's been dumped on. His skin around the coarse ropes is raw and bleeding, too. That's because of his earlier trashing. He doesn't have the energy anymore. Because there are more open wounds littered all over his torso, bruises on his face, split lip all swollen and tender. His energy is going to keeping his breathing steady. To staying awake.

  What for, though? Why is he staying conscious? No one's coming. He knows. He damn well knows.

  Maybe it's just so that he can walk through death's door with both eyes wide open. Not that anyone will notice, because as stripped down as he might be, left only in his underwear and socks, at least they didn't take off the mask. The only true mercy.

  There, right there: the sound expensive shoes make when their owner walks on concrete floors - getting closer again. He lifts his head towards the source, smiling, because the only way he'll ever stop taunting someone is when he's six feet under, mouthful of maggots choking him down.

  "Miss me already? Can't have enough of me, huh?"

  When they shatter his clavicle, this time he does black out.

-

  A body can only withhold so much damage when delivered in different visits throughout several hours that by the tail end of the ordeal begin drifting onto one big mass of existence. He can even hold his head up anymore and his eyes are barely open behind the mask. There's a sound of an agitated rattle snake inside his chest every time he breathes. He can taste his blood, thick and warm, in his mouth, on his tongue.

  He isn't even sure why he's here, how he got here, when, where, what is left or right or in front or behind. If he's still sitting it's impossible for him to tell. He's stopped feeling the rope some stabs ago. He thinks he's smiling. He thinks he never stopped.

  "Stubborn asshole," someone says in between the sea of buzzing silence taking over thought.

  " — now? What now?"

 He tries to focus. He honestly tries.

  "Let's leave — couple of hours — he'll croak."

  So much for trying.

  At least he stops hearing that buzzing, nonstop, piercing and looming all over. At least he gets to rest. A little bit. Just a little bit. No harm in closing his eyes, sleeping a little. Letting himself fall into that lull, the one that comes after one too many aches piled up one atop the other. The one that tells him come on son, let go, it will all be easier if you let go. You held up well, more than the very best of the best, you fought your fight. Come on, son. It'll all be over.

  No one's coming, that lull says. No one's coming but that's alright, isn't it? You've learnt to pick up after yourself. You haven't mastered the science of putting a stop to the waiting, that's true, but everyone has their shortcomings.

  He tries to curl the fingers of his hand, any of the two. He doesn't think he quite manages to. Ah, that will make crawling trickier. If he can even make it to the floor.

-

  It's unclear when he passes out again but this time, when he comes to, is to shouts drowning out other shouts, gunfire blasting off and disrupting the rhythm of the thick, nearly impenetrable molasses existence has come to be. He tries to open his mouth to complain, ask them to stop with their bitching already, but only a trickle of blood comes out, spilling down his chin sinuous and slow.

  Someone lets out a whistle near him and the sound is somewhat familiar. He latches onto it for good, struggles against the lightless nothingness threatening to take over the still working part of his brain. He's staying awake this time even if that's the final thing to push him over.

  "They really did a number on you, kid," that someone says and ok, yes, he knows that voice. Knows that tone. One that carries ease and danger all in a neat package, precise and deadly. There's an undercurrent there, though, of something else but he's too out of it to realize what.

  What's important is that he recognizes the voice. And so he struggles with sound again.

  " —troke."

  The bastard laughs. It's short, clipped, and maybe, perhaps, a little bit, probably, pissed off. What did he do now? It's not his fault his jaw is probably fractured. Wait. Maybe it is. He did taunt them.

  "Good enough," Deathstroke speaks again, presumably before or while untying him, he can't tell. There's probably more that's being said but he can hardly stay focused. A pinch and he's — gone.

-

  By the time he opens his eyes again, life seems new and the same old bitch at the same time. New because his surroundings are definitely different and absolutely, one hundred percent, cleaner. He's also lying down now in a bed that's too comfortable to be true, or maybe it just feels that way because he is redefining the meaning of the word 'tired'. Making a whole new entry for it in every fucking dictionary in the world with the description of 'being dead hurts way fucking less'.

  It doesn't matter. Before he can even do something like groan out in mild discomfort, there's a face right above his, dark hair and vivid blue eyes the depth of the ocean.

  "You're awake," none other than Dick motherfucking Grayson says, voice tangled up in worry. "Jay, thank gods you're awake."

  "You better don't speak, kid," Slade says from somewhere he can't see, his usual rumble something that in this situation actually soothes, which is a fucking rarity. "Not with your jaw like that."

  Dick carries on like this is just a regular monday, like sure, yes, there's nothing odd about being in what Jason's pretty sure is one of Slade's safehouses wounded under the care of said asshole and Grayson, an utter dick by trade. Maybe this is the updated torture hell has designed for him, for this second time around on the wheelhouse of brimstone and flames, and he's well and truly dead.

  He's pretty sure he isn't, though.

  It's… strange. He had truly believed no one would get him, because, well, he had told no one where he was going, what he was doing. He had jumped guns first into the chance at dismantling the human trafficking group without ever considering asking for backup.

  Kudos to me, Jason thinks and hums as he watches Dick turn around and start digging for fresh bandages inside a first aid box. I still got rid of most of the operation.

  Following his own rules, too.

  None of those bastards were ever going to lay hands on another human again.

-

  After that, it's easy for him to adapt and accommodate to this new strange situation. To Dick just being there, like he's never been before, replacing ice packs, helping him to the bathroom. It's a miracle neither he nor Slade have taken his forced silence in their favor to yell about the many mistakes he made that led to his capture.

  He knows Dick is probably waiting for him to be able to reply to the question of what the fuck were you thinking so he can weaponize the words and throw them right back at Jason in a twist worthy of an acrobat.

  Jason finds that he doesn't care too much about that.

[reyesstrand]

I would love to see something for Tarlos with prompts 25 and 94 💜

so sorry for the wait for this!!! i hope you enjoy!!! 💗

all prompts are from this list. also available on ao3! 

TK’s still not used to it.

He’s not used to feeling like, for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he’s sure on his feet. He’s not used to feeling the same apprehension that crosses Judd’s face whenever they’re about to run into a burning building, surely thinking about Grace and the endless what-ifs that come with doing their job. TK knows deep down that he loved Alex, even if he was so desperate to be in a fully-developed, adult relationship with who he thought was his person that he was blind to the distance that had grown between them. But even if they didn’t end up working out, and maybe they never worked after those first few months, TK knows that part of him loved Alex.

But it’s almost laughable, now, because even if Alex was his first love, it doesn’t hold a flame to the way his heart seems to expand in his chest when he even thinks about Carlos.

And it’s a good thing. He’s so fucking happy he feels like he’s floating on air, and it’s not just Carlos, because he knows the dangers of hindering his emotions on another person — despite his admitted dependency on others. But it’s the community, the family that he’s found in Texas, of all places, that has him feeling like he does. But sometimes it’s a bad thing, this home he’s found. Because now he understands Judd and the way he runs his thumb over his wedding band when he’s lost in his thoughts, muttering praises to a God he doesn’t fully believe in when the whole team walks away from a successful response to a call.

And that understanding seems to basically slap him in the face.

They’d been dispatched to a house fire, called in just past midnight by a neighbour — nothing out of their wheelhouse. When they got to the small neighbourhood, the flames seemed to be licking at the inky night sky, dark smoke billowing out of the windows of the two-storey home. They’d been given a quick rundown, all information pulled from concerned neighbours: they noticed smoke a few minutes after they got home at midnight, and knew that the family was holding a birthday party and had relatives and friends from out-of-town staying with them. Owen had given a brief set of orders: Marjan, Judd and TK were to head in to try and pull people from the house, while Paul and one of the new probies dealt with the hose, Mateo in charge of attaching them to the nearest hydrant to add to their water supply.

Signs of life were found quickly enough, and they were sent into the house, Judd taking the downstairs area while Marjan and TK trekked upstairs, where they could hear some cries for help. And now here they sit, smoke clouding up around them, and TK feels his heart suddenly sink because—because she was fine, thirty seconds ago, and now the older woman they’d found is gone.

“TK, we have to keep moving,” Marjan says, though she’s reluctant, too. TK’s still staring down at her blank eyes, and he swallows. Marjan ducks her head downward, clutching her radio with her gloved hand. “This is Firefighter Marwani and Strand, we have a deceased female on the second floor and we need her to be retrieved. We still have another room to clear, Cap, then we’ll be out.”

Owen’s voice comes through, affirming Marjan’s request, before she lets go of her radio and turns back to TK.

“Hey, listen to me,” Marjan says, “We need to have clear minds, here, okay? I can’t—I won’t lose you too, TK, not when we can be smart about this.”

“Sorry, you’re right,” TK shakes his head, trying to move the thoughts of the dying woman to the back of his mind. He knows that they’ll need some good tea and bad TV — and probably a good cry, too — when they’re back at the station, but right now they have a job to do.

“You better believe it, pretty boy,” Marjan grins at him, trying to pull him even further from his thoughts, and he rolls his eyes and nudges her. He doesn’t know how to tell her that it isn’t just the woman, but it’s the fact that he’s sort of just now realized he’s in love with Carlos because he has something to keep fighting for. He has someone waiting for him — multiple someones, really, when he thinks of the rest of the 126 — and so he’s going to get his shit together and get out of here. Both of them are.

He’s lost people on calls before, and even though it punches a hole through his chest, he knows there’s others that might need their help, so he keeps moving. They keep walking forward, TK focusing on the vibrant orange of her name on Marjan’s turnout coat, keeping him focused, and when they clear the last of the bedrooms, helping a man to his feet as he holds onto his child, they start making their way out.

And that’s when they hear the baby’s cries.

“TK?”

Marjan catches his eye, and she knows what he’s going to do; she knows he’s going to risk going into an unsecured part of the house to get to the baby.

“Be careful,” she warns, knowing if he were her, she wouldn’t want to be stopped. And so he goes, and he has to work around a half-collapsed floor, but he makes it, and he secures an oxygen mask over the baby’s face, bundling her up in a blanket he finds in the crib and cradling her close to his chest as he makes it back to Marjan.

“See? I’m always careful,” TK says, and she shakes her head at him but there’s a smile there, as she lets out a quick prayer as they make it out of the house.

They hug for a long time that night, once everyone they’d been able to get out has been loaded into an ambulance. TK’s content to never be pulled out of her arms.

* * *

After spending the last bit of his shift with Marjan, sitting out behind the station with Buttercup between them, letting the weight of the day fall off of them, TK is relieved when the next crew comes in and they’re able to go home. Which means that he’s going to Carlos’, where TK realizes he’s still got a sort of boundless energy that comes with just getting off a shift where he pulled some less-than smart stunts, and as he tells the stories to Carlos, his boyfriend’s face shifts into an expression of worry.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Carlos asks him, voice hollow, and when TK furrows his brows at the other man in confusion, Carlos closes his eyes for a brief moment before he steps closer and whispers, “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be,” TK whispers back, knowing where the burst of emotion came from. He worries too — it’s a part of dating someone with similar experiences in the workplace.

“I just get so worried about you, and—” Carlos cuts himself off, shaking his head, even as TK presses his palms to either side of the man’s face and forces him to look at him. “You make me nervous, Ty.”

“In a good way?” TK asks, and Carlos’ eyebrows jerk up, almost in surprise.

“Yeah, in a good way,” Carlos insists, barely keeping his disdain for TK’s exes at bay. It always simmers under the surface — ever since TK mentioned that nobody’s ever been as gentle with him as Carlos is, nobody’s ever just cared for him like he does. “I just can’t imagine losing you. I care about you so much, it scares me, sometimes. And I know it’s a part of your job, but—”

It hits TK, then, like a mirror of the moment he had back when he was in that house with Marjan: he loves Carlos. He’s the person that TK wants to fight through bad calls for. He’s the person that TK wants to come home to, and Carlos feels the same way, it’s right there on his face, his heart on his sleeve like always.

“I love you,” TK says, not even listening to the babbled words Carlos is using to try and steer them away from the conversation.

“You…”

“I’m in love with you,” TK says it again, voice not shaking as much.

Carlos seems to move from being completely stressed out to surprised to overwhelmingly adoring in the matter of seconds. He presses their foreheads together, brushes his nose against TK’s in a fleeting moment of fondness. “I love you too.”

“I can’t promise that there won’t be stupid stunts in the future,” TK adds, a little while later, Carlos working on his buttons with care as he tries to get comfortable on the couch, not really caring much because Carlos is hovering over him, knees on either side of his waist. Everywhere he looks there's Carlos, and he doesn’t even know if he’s making much sense, anymore, but he has to get it all out. Carlos looks at him as he talks, always so focused on him, and TK feels his skin burn pleasantly. “But I’m—I’m always going to try to come home to you. It’s all that I think about.”

“Home, huh?” Carlos asks, teasing him as the current running between them sparks again; as a flare of something warm and familiar and enticing heats up and covers them completely.

TK rolls his eyes, but nods anyway, reaching a hand up to cradle the back of Carlos’ neck to pull him down for another kiss.

He pulls away, only to confirm the obvious.

“Yeah. Home. ”

And Carlos smiles brilliantly at him and is still smiling when they kiss again. And TK is ready to sink his feet into the ground so he doesn’t soar off to space, because there’s not a moment of this he ever wants to miss.

[megsironthrone]

Different Than You Used to Be

Based on this request:  Yes! Requests are open! Could you write a jaime x reader. The reader is a robbs twin and was married to jaime before the show/books started. She used to hang out with robb, jon and theon a lot, and she wasn't that much of a lady. Now she returns to winterfell with the king and she is pregnant, so she is less wild then she used to be. The boys think she has changed and thus treat her differently than they used to, so she shows she can still be her old self and jaime is just worried.

Here you are!*Characters are not mine!*

Warnings: AU in a sense. A little angst, Robb being kind of a douche, fluff. 

Pairings/Characters: Jaime Lannister x wife!reader, Robb Stark x fem!twin reader (obviously not romantic)

You couldn't fight the smile on your face as the carriage pulled up to the gates of Winterfell. It had been so long since you'd last been home. In fact, you had not returned since your marriage to Jaime. You had missed it and your family. Not that there was anything wrong with Jaime! You had simply wanted to be closer to your parents and siblings.

         When your father had first informed you of your betrothal to Jaime, you were livid. Of all the men in the world, you couldn't understand why your father had chosen Jaime Lannister for you. After a while though, you made peace with it and now you couldn't be happier. Well, except for the month long carriage ride with your goodsister and her children.

         No sooner had the carriage pulled to a stop were you trying to get out. "Slow down, Y/N. Winterfell isn't going anywhere. You truly are a daughter of the North, aren't you?" You gave a shrug as the door opened and you climbed down. In an instant, Jaime was by your side. You smiled up at him before turning your attention to your family.

         Your father was talking to Robert, but your mother's eyes found yours and she gave you a smile. You were practically bouncing when Robert moved aside to let you greet your family. Jaime's soft chuckle was heard but you ignored him. "Mother. Father," you greeted warmly, wrapping your arms around your mother. She laughed lightly. "The South has been good to you, my daughter. You are practically aglow…" she trailed off, her eyes quickly darting down to your stomach that only just recently begun to expand. You nodded in answer to her unasked question.

         After hugging your father, you moved aside. You knew Robert would wish to pay his respects to your late aunt. Jaime placed a kiss to your temple. "I need to find Tyrion. Will you be alright?" At your nod, Jaime left you. Your gaze found your twin brother Robb. He was looking at you as if he didn't know you. Jon and Theon were the same.

         "What?" you asked. "You're different," Robb stated. Your brows furrowed. You had only just arrived. How could he say that? "What do you mean, Robb?" He crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. "My sister would have knocked over everyone in her path, including the king, to get to her family. She would have come galloping in on a wild stallion instead of riding in a wheelhouse. She would have already hit Theon in the arm for making some lewd comment or other. You're different."

         With that, Robb walked away with Jon and Theon following after. You were left standing there with your mouth open. You had been expecting a hug or a smile. Anything but that. These were not only your brothers, blood or otherwise, they were also your best friends. How could they treat you like some sort of pariah? You tried not to cry as you made your way inside to find your mother once again. At least she would still welcome you with open arms.

*time skip*

         You had had enough. Ever since you arrived in Winterfell, your brothers had been treating you differently. They treated you like a lady instead of like a sister or friend. You hated it. You wanted things to go back to the way they used to be and you knew just how to make that happen. You were going to show your brothers that you were the same person as before.

         "You want to what?" Robb asked with an arched brow. You turned the expression. "You heard me, Robb Stark. I challenged you. You've never been able to beat me, but if I'm so different, maybe that will change." Robb glanced at Jon and Theon. Jon gave a little shrug while Theon's face split into a grin. "Go on, Stark. I think you can take her. She's too much of a lady now." At that, Robb smiled and accepted your challenge.

         "Just don't cry when I win, dear sister." You let out a laugh. "As if you could even touch me with that blade." With no further words, the match began. If Robb had been expecting an easy match, he was in for a rude awakening. You matched every thrust of his sword with your own. You weren't about to lose now when your reputation was at stake. You were careful not to let him near your stomach, but you didn't hold back on him at all. That is, until you heard your husband's voice.

         "Y/N! What in Seven Hells do you think you're doing?!" All movement stopped. The servants scurried away in terror. Jaime wasn't really a violent man, but when he grew angry, he was someone to fear. Robb apparently didn't know that because he stepped up next to you and put a hand on your shoulder.

         "She is finally behaving like my sister. I don't know what you did or said to her, Lord Jaime, but you changed her. Now she's herself again. You have no right to yell at her. You may be her husband, but that does not mean you can order her about. It does not mean you can tell her what to do or what not to do." You opened your mouth to say something, but Jaime beat you to it.

         "I can when she's carrying my child!" Robb's hand slipped from your shoulder and he faced you. "Are you-Are you pregnant, Y/N?" You nodded sheepishly. Robb's blue eyes turned stormy. "Then Jaime is right, what the Hells were you thinking?! You shouldn't be picking up a blade, a practice one or otherwise." You crossed your arms under your breasts. "Excuse me? Who was it that was treating me like a pariah? You were the one who said I was different. I was simply proving how wrong you were. I am still the same Y/N that left here." Robb flushed.

         "I am sorry, Y/N. You are right. I shouldn't have said those things. I should have known you were acting odd for a reason. Can you forgive me?" You gave him a smile and nodded. "So long as you always remember that I can, and will, kick your arse if necessary." Robb chuckled before pulling you into a hug, following by Jon and Theon a moment later. When you broke apart, Jaime extended his hand to you. "If you will excuse us, I need to borrow my wife for a moment."

         You took Jaime's hand and let him lead you into the castle and up to your shared chambers. He was still aggravated. You could tell. "Jaime…I'm sorry. You know I would never put our child in danger." He still didn't speak. He was pacing the floor, running a hand through his yellow locks. "Jaime," you breathed, hoping to get his attention.

         "Please don't do anything like that again," he finally said, looking at you. His green eyes were filled with concern. "I promise you, I will not put the baby at risk." Jaime shook his head. "It isn't just about the baby, Y/N. I am worried about you. Your brothers are excellent swordsmen. I don't want you to get hurt or worse. Y-You're all I have, Y/N." You wrapped your arms around him. "And you will have me until the day I die, Jaime. And if you go first, I will not be far behind. We have many, many more years together, my love."

         Jaime nuzzled his nose into your hair and breathed in your familiar scent. "I love you, Jaime, and I love our child. I am not going anywhere, and I won't get myself hurt…too badly." He glared down at you and you giggled lightly. "I am joking, love. I know you'll protect me and I will protect the babe. I swear." Jaime sighed, but nodded all the same. "I love you too." You beamed. "Good. Now, will you please kiss me? Seeing you so protective and worried about me really makes me love you even more." Jaime finally laughed as he pressed his lips to yours.

(a/n: I hope this is what you wanted!)

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Jaime Lannister Tags: @faith-in-dean​

[moipale]

DP Side Hoes Week Day 1: Kwan/Friendship

cruelty as an occupational hazard of high school football ; ao3 link

Of all the people she’d expected to volunteer for her park restoration project, Kwan wasn’t necessarily the last, but he certainly wasn’t high up on the list.

If any of her classmates were going to volunteer, Sam would have expected the environmental club—who are contributing, to be fair—or maybe some of the punk kids. Not Kwan, a football player and Dash’s right hand.

When Danny had briefly “dated” Paulina, Kwan had stooped to hang out with her and Tucker, and he’d been overbearing, but sweet enough. That had been a bond of opportunity, though, and as soon as Star showed interest, he’d left. It was cut and dry, as far as she was concerned.

And yet here he was, helping her put up posters around town in the grueling almost-summer heat, letterman jacket tied around his waist and stapler gun held comfortably in his hand.

Sam didn’t question him, when he’d showed up at the designated meeting place. Instead, she’d waited for her other volunteers to arrive—some of the older Amity residents, a few college students, the local florist—before saddling each of them, Kwan included, with a stack of posters and a stapler and told them to get to work, sending them off in pairs and threes.

Somehow Sam had ended up alone with Kwan, and she isn’t sure if it was by design or not. Had he meant something by coming? Had she, by placing herself with him? Here they were regardless, in one of the nicer neighborhoods, spacing out posters on white picket fences and telephone poles.

“I bet you wonder why I came,” he says without prompting, an hour and a half into their task, breaking the comfortable, if odd, silence.

Sam is wondering, obviously. Kwan isn’t the textbook jock but he isn’t exactly a nature-lover, either, and while her project is primarily advocating for upkeep of the local park—repeated ghost attacks and extreme property damage has left it almost unusable—a good portion of it also advocates for preserving what wild- and plant-life they can.

She and Tucker had seen firsthand who Kwan could be, in the right company. Hell, maybe he’s like that with Dash, too, and the dude just tolerates it. But here, now, no matter how saccharine Kwan can be in his heart, he doesn’t have a motivation to be putting up these posters. He’s not like Sam. He doesn’t have the same drive for change that she does.

“Yeah,” she agrees, finishing a last staple on the poster he’s holding up for her. “Not exactly your scene, as far as I can tell.” She straightens up, then faces him. He tilts his head and looks at her, just the edge of his mouth curving up.

“No, I guess it isn’t,” Kwan says, and turns to lead the way down the sidewalk. There’s a pause before he continues. “I think I wanted to say sorry.”

Sam raises her eyebrows. “Sorry? For what?”

“I mean, there was the whole thing with your bookstore. But mostly I wanted to apologize for acting so coldly to you and Tucker after Star asked me out.” He stops, and automatically she picks a poster to hold against the fence next to them while he staples it up.

She snorts. “No hard feelings.”

“No, but,” Kwan says, his face scrunching. “I feel bad about it. I didn’t have to be so mean when it happened, but I was.”

“At this point I think you’ve been classically conditioned into cruelty, Kwan. It’s an occupational hazard of high school football,” Sam says, chuckling to herself. Kwan finished stapling the poster and steps back, turning to face her.

When she gets a good look at his face, she stops, and remembers the puppy-like enthusiasm he’d had at the slam poetry reading, despite it being so far from his wheelhouse. And how he’d interacted with her and Tucker so gently, under the impression that, without popularity, he was free to act however he wanted. The moment he’d said, “You and Tucker don’t like me very much, do you?” and it had been the most vulnerability she’d seen in a high schooler ever, outside of her best friends.

He’s feeling remorse, and she’s been so flippant.

Her face settles into something more serious. “Thank you for volunteering, Kwan,” she says, and his lip twitches in the direction of a smile. “And don’t worry about what you said. Dash has done far worse to all of us.”

He does smile, then, hefting his stack of posters closer to his chest, though it’s a melancholic expression. “I know he has. Doesn’t mean I have to join in.”

“No,” Sam agrees. “But you’re here, and he isn’t.” Kwan looks at her, and she reaches out to lightly punch his arm. “That counts for something.”

This time, he grins.

[deans-baby-momma]

Seeking Mercy-Chapter 7

Summary: How will Dean react to Y/N’s news?

Previously:

Dean’s grunts and groans echo off the walls of the bedroom, along with her moans and breathless cries. The bed springs start squeaking but neither of them pay any attention, both of them trying to reach their end.

“I’m close Dean,” Y/N whispers. “I’m going to cum. Cum with me baby. Cum inside me.”

“I. can’t.” Dean objects with each thrust. “You’ll. Get. Pregnant. Again. But fuck if I don’t want to. I love filling you up.”

“Too late, baby. I’m already pregnant again.”

Dean’s release is accompanied with a long drawn out groan until his body collapses onto her.

“What?” Dean asks, propping himself on his elbows, his softening member still lodged deep. “What did you say?”

Y/N looks up at her husband and smiles. 

“I said, it’s too late. I’m already pregnant again.”

She watches the emotions play out across Dean’s face. From confusion to stunned to surprise until he finally smiles a genuine smile down at her.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Holy fuck!” he exclaims. “How is that even possible?”

“Well, you see...when a man and woman fuck-”

Dean laughs as he pulls out of her and rolls to the side. “Fuck you. I know that how. But we’ve been careful.”

“No we haven’t,” Y/N reminds him. “The night after Cas healed you. We screwed like rabbits and you were bareback.”

“So that means, I knocked you up what, 6 or 7 weeks ago?”

“Give or take,” Y/N says as she turns onto her side to look at her husband. “Are you mad?”

“What? Hell no I’m not mad. I’m just- I’m in shock I think,” he says. “I mean I know we talked about having more kids but I always figured it’d be down the road a bit. Not before Mav was even a year old yet.”

Dean quickly turns and looks at her. “Are you okay? I didn’t--I didn’t hurt you did I? I didn’t fuck you too hard?”

“No, Dean. If you ask me you didn’t fuck me hard enough. But don’t worry. Me and the baby are just fine. I have an appointment tomorrow, if you want to go. I’m sure Dr. Porter and her nurses would love to see you again.”

“Yea, yea. Shut up!” Dean says playfully. “Of course I’ll go with you. Can we tell the others?”

“If you want.”

“If I want,” Dean repeats, mockingly. “Get your fine ass up and get dressed and let’s go tell the family.”

Seeing Dean gush about the news to his mom and brothers is more than Y/N could ever imagine. 

He’s so excited and happy to be adding another addition to the Winchester family.

Y/N is, at first, worried that Adam will spill the beans about already knowing, but being the good actor he is, the youngest Winchester feigns surprise and delight when told by his oldest brother.

That night, Mary whips up a batch of Winchester surprise and a cherry pie for dessert in celebration.

The festivities last late into the night, with Y/N sitting on Dean’s lap at one of the library tables while Sam and Mary look on; Adam already retired for the night, along with Mavelin.

“So, were you two trying? Or was this a ‘oops’ pregnancy?” Mary inquires.

Dean and Y/N look at one another before Y/N answers. “Definitely an ‘oops’. But when your husband is miraculously healed of paralysis, the last thing you think of is protection.”

“Oh god! I don’t even want to think about that,” Sam whines. “Oh great, now I have those images in my head.”

Dean chuckles. “I knew you fantasized about my ass.”

Y/N slaps Dean on the shoulder as Sam groans behind her. 

“Dean be nice to your brother,” Mary chastises.

“He started it,” Dean counters.

“Children,” Y/N says laughing and shaking her head.

Dean wraps his arms around her middle and smiles, “Nah just your baby daddy,” he says with a bright smile on his face before pulling her down to kiss her.

Y/N watches Dean when he doesn’t know she is looking. He is so happy and carefree and just bounces around like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

The doctor appointment confirms that Y/N is indeed pregnant and gives them a due date of near Dean’s own birthday. The fact that he may get to share a birthday with his child makes Dean ecstatic.

The doctor’s appointment also confirms what Y/N was afraid of. There is no definite date of conception. The doctor explains that she couldn’t exactly establish a DOC but with the size of the fetus, guesses that Y/N is about 10 weeks along. Y/N knows that 10 weeks ago Dean was still incapacitated and unable to produce an erection so it is doubtful he is the father. 

Thankfully, Dean has yet to come to that realization.

While helping Mary cook one evening later in the week, Dean comes into the kitchen and picks Y/N up, swinging her around.

“Hello my gorgeous baby momma,” he laughs.

“Hi,” Y/N responds. The fact that seeing Dean this light and happy is not lost on her. She is loving the new and improved man.

“How about tonight after dinner and we put Mav down, we take a drive?”

“Okay.”

The wind whistles through the windows of the Impala as Y/N and Dean speed down the highway; one of Dean’s old cassettes playing through the speakers.

Y/N’s hand is wrapped in his on the seat between them. Her free hand settled on her slightly pudgy stomach as she watches the scenery through the windshield. Her conscious begins to get the better of her.

Seeing Dean so damn happy and excited about the new baby was something she just was not expecting. When she had taken the test and it came back positive, she’d been worried how he would react, but this was not at all what she was anticipating.

Not that she was expecting a bad outcome, but happy, worry-free Dean was not in her wheelhouse of thinking. And now with her worst fears settled, it broke her heart to see him like this.

Looking over to her husband, she watches as he drives along, humming to whatever song is playing. She loves him so much her heart feels like it is about to burst. And she knows she is going to have to break his. She can’t take it anymore; the guilt, the shame is just too much.

Letting go of his hand and reaching to turn the music off, Y/N speaks up.

“Dean we need to talk. I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“Pull over.”

Dean quickly finds a spot and pulls off the road, putting the car in park and killing the engine.

“Baby, what is it?” he implores.

Deciding to just bite the bullet, Y/N blurts out. “I slept with Adam.” The tears start immediately and she looks down at her lap.

“Wha--what?”

“I slept with Adam,” she repeats through the tears.

The silence in the Impala is deafening. Y/N can’t take her eyes off her hands in her lap. She is terrified to look at her husband, doesn’t want to see the pain and agony her confession has caused.

“You- you slept with my brother?”

She nods, not trusting her voice at all.

“Was it while I was hurt?”

Again she just nods.

Another bout of silence fills the car until she can’t take it anymore and feels as if she is suffocating.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

Still not able to look at him, Y/N nervously awaits the eruption, the barrage of questioning. But they never come. Steeling herself, she glances over at Dean to see him sitting still, staring at the steering wheel. He looks completely devastated. She watches his eyes close and sees a lone tear glide down his cheek.

“So,” he finally speaks after clearing his throat and wiping away the moisture on his face. He never takes his eyes off the center of the wheel. “While I was unable to fully satisfy you, you fucked Adam?”

“Yea,” she answers meekly.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Y/N inquires, unsure of that response.

“Yea, okay,” Dean affirms. “I wasn’t able to please you, you found it in my brother. I understand.”

“But-”

“No buts,” Deans says as he finally turns to look at her. “I get it. I do. You’ve always had a voracious sexual appetite. I know this and I couldn’t do for you what needed to be done. So you found it somewhere else. Am I happy about it? Abso-fucking-lutely not! Do I like the idea that my half-brother now knows what it feels like to be inside you? Hell no. But I get it. I do. And I love you enough to overlook it. Just as long as you swear it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t. I promise.���

“How many times did he-- no you know what, never mind. I don’t want to know,” Dean says, shaking his head.

“Listen, Y/N. I love you and I can’t imagine life without you and Mav. I don’t want to lose you. It would kill me,” Dean says and then stops. He glances down to her stomach and then back up to her eyes. “Is the baby his?”

“No,” she lies. “This is your baby, Dean.” 

When they get back to the Bunker later, Dean takes her hand and they approach Adam’s room. 

Adam takes forever to open the door after Dean knocks.

“We gotta talk,” Dean says as he shoulders his way into his half-brother’s room.

“Uh,” Adam says as he looks from Dean to Y/N and back to Dean. “What’s up?”

Y/n stays quiet but Dean leans against the edge of the desk in the corner, crossing his arms. He looks menacing and threatening. 

Dean clears his throat before speaking. “I know about you and Y/N. I know the two of you had sex. Look, I see it like this…..you did what I couldn’t while I was broken. But if you ever try to touch my wife like that again I’ll break your dick. Is that clear? I’m back, my dick works again so she doesn’t need yours. Got it?”

“Crystal.” Adam says and watches Dean leave his room. Y/N looks at him pleadingly before following behind her husband. Adam is stunned and frozen in his spot. ‘What the hell was that about?’ 

As Adam lays in bed and thinks about what his brother said, it dawns on him. Y/N must have told his brother that they fucked! But the way Dean talked about it was like it only happened once and while he was injured and unable to fulfill his husbandly duties. 

Did Y/N lie and tell Dean that? Did she lead him to believe that it only happened once after the accident? That it hadn’t been going on for months before he and the rest of the family were in a wreck.  Did Dean not know that as he was being wounded, his youngest brother had been buried ball’s deep in his wife? 

Adam closed his eyes, wondering why she had even told Dean. And did she tell him that he was possibly the father and not Dean? 

To say he got a lousy night of sleep was an understatement. 

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